Le Deluge
by AMarguerite
Summary: In which Marguerite holds a session of her salon despite marital law, turns in the Marquis de SaintCyr, and realizes that Sir Percy may be serious when he says that he is in love with her. Featuring historial cameos! Complete.
1. In Which Marguerite Tells a Story

Disclaimer: I am not the Baroness. I write only to amuse myself and to practice at the craft, not to make money/ infringe on copyrights/ thumb my nose at Baroness Orczy's descendants, what have you.

Author's Note: As school has started up again, updates, alas, will be sporadic, but the chapters will be long and well-researched (college libraries are good for something after all!). I believe that there will be about five chapters. This story follows along the timeline of the other long, chaptered stories (_Comme __dans __l'histoire _and _La __Réapparition_) but it should make sense on its own. Also, a big thank you to all the people who beta'd for me!

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The morning seemed burnished gold in the sunlight. Marguerite pushed the windows open and closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of the sunlight caress her as gently as any stage lover and she swore she could feel the sun scattering freckles across her nose and cheeks.

She felt deliriously happy to be alive, as if her soul was made entirely of champagne and lightening that fizzled in her body. Marguerite fizzed and bubbled and sparkled, feeling the wild thrill of living flood through her, seep into her thoughts and mesh itself in her mood like bright splashes of paint on canvas.

The world felt oddly full of daffodils and an idyllic, bucolic sense of laziness and relaxation, brought on by the stillness of the city under the sitting room window. Marguerite looked out on the empty paving stones and felt a wild flicker of panic at the emptiness. Without thinking much, she chipperly told her maid, Louise, that she was going to open her salon in the afternoon. Marguerite then forced her brother, Armand, up out of bed, criticized his choice of clothing and forced him to wear something that didn't make her feel ashamed to admit they were blood relations and, simultaneously tripping over the cat, jamming her straw hat on her head, and tucking a pistol in the sash of her dress, waltzing out the door to pay several social calls.

The fact that Paris was under marital law entirely failed to faze her, and her good spirits (amplified and unrestrainable whenever she was with someone) entirely convinced the core members of her salon that Paris was safe once again. Thus, her guests poured in while Marguerite poured out tea and Louise grimly uncorked a bottle of red wine Marguerite had received from an admirer back in '88.

Talma came first and he and Marguerite had great fun entertaining everyone who arrived later. Talma flirted outrageously with pretty Lucile Desmoulins- who was supposed to be in hiding with her husband, Camille, in the apartment just above Marguerite's- and Camille had to explain his reasoning for leaving his hiding place to Paul Déroulède several times. Paul remained entirely unconvinced that either Desmoulins should have come out of hiding and only admitted that Camille's argument that the need to meet and test the political waters- and the need to eat (Lucile could not cook, and Louise could)- outweighed any need to hide had validity only when Robespierre, much too tired, much too pale, arrived with Chauvelin and several other deputies. They dressed in somber colors (Robespierre had put away his embroidered waistcoats, which made Marguerite feel vaguely sad) and kept their hat brims pulled down low, over their eyes. They huddled together in the corner, still stupefied from the bloodshed from the Champs de Mars massacres, protected by the laughter of the other guests, the shocked gasps from the group listening to Olympe des Gouges, and the lock Marguerite herself slid shut after the arrival of each guest.

Marguerite deeply regretted the abrupt cut-offs of each conversation whenever someone knocked on the door and Marguerite pleasantly asked who was there and carried on a loud conversation about personal details her supposed guest would surely know as she fumbled with the heavy lock.

"And how is you dear eldest child? Your daughter?" Marguerite asked to Rose de Beauhernais.

"Marguerite, Hortense is much younger than Eugene. _He _is back in school already."

"Is he as much of a scholar as ever?"

"Much to my husband's unending chagrin. Eugene cares more for horses than Latin. Alexandre returns Eugene's letters with corrections on the spelling. However, Eugene seems quite happy at school, and as long as my son is happy there, I shall be content. His poor sister grieves at his going, though. I imagine I should look for a school soon for Hortense, but it is so difficult to part with one's children. Motherhood changes you so."

Marguerite slid the bolt back and cheerfully embraced Rose. "It has been an age! I do apologize- such a horrid lock, but Armand insisted we put it in after- well, you know. Oh, I see you… brought a guest."

Marguerite turned uncertainly to the other woman in the hall and dropped a curtsey.

"I am sure you remember Marie-Anne Lavoisier? You both met in my salon and most assuredly at my aunt Fanny's." Marguerite had no head for faces and pretended to be simply overjoyed to see her dear friend Madame Lavoisier again, who, with an equally false show of friendliness, pretended to be delighted to be in the salon of an actress.

"You must feel quite out of place in such a political and artistic salon," Rose said to Madame Lavoisier, as Marguerite slid the bolt back in place. "It is very different from your usual batch of scientists, is it not, Marie- Anne?"

Madame Lavoisier roused herself out of her stupor. "Hm? Yes. Particularly

since--" She looked around the room for the first time, and pressed her lips together. "Mademoiselle Saint-Just, there are certain people here who I do not think ought to be allowed in polite society, particularly…"

Marguerite followed her gaze over to where her cousin Louis taunted Camille Desmoulins over his stutter and the other deputies avoided eye contact. "Come now-- we are all friends here!"

Rose linked arms with Madame Lavoisier, her voice low and quiet. Marguerite did not bother to pretend not to eavesdrop. "Marie-Anne, this is why I pressed you to come. Science is all well and good, but one must keep up with politics too."

"A dead scientist is of very little use to anyone," Marguerite added flippantly, gesturing at Armand to take Camille over to Talma. Armand appeared baffled and did nothing, leaving Robespierre to sharply defend Camille, and Louis (who insisted on going by Antoine, which Marguerite found vaguely irritating) to grow sulky and irritable.

"That is true." Madame Lavoisier looked away, her lips twisting together as if she were trying to keep from crying. "Antoine and I have been pariahs. Hardly anyone comes to my salon any more. No one wishes to be a known associate of a Paris tax collector."

A sudden lull in the conversation made Madame Lavoisier's statement sound absurdly loud. Cousin Louis, overhearing this, looked positively dangerous. Only a stern "Saint-Just!" from Robespierre served to divert his attention.

Marguerite was quite sure that Rose's unthinking compassion for everyone would get her killed someday.

"Nonsense!" Marguerite said brightly. "Come, now- 'equality of brains and not of birth' has ever been my motto. If I don't discriminate against those unlucky enough _not_ to have a participle before their names, I don't see why I should discriminate against those who _d__o._ You and dear Monsieur Lavoisier shall always welcome here, and I'm sure your salon will be full again, once martial law's been revoked!" All the same, Marguerite was quite determined to keep Madame Lavoisier from the deputies.

Rose smiled with lips firmly closed over her bad teeth, and gently guided Madame Lavoisier into the room. Rose had particularly remarkable smiles, which could set an entire room at its ease, and demonstrate to the whole world her genuine goodwill and affection for all mankind. It was as effective as a laugh and a witticism from Marguerite. The combination of both Rose's smile and Marguerite's wit fortunately forestalled any explosion for temper on Madame Lavoisier's part, and the conversation burbled on.

"Well, Margot," Rose commented (and Marguerite was suddenly glad that she did so; Rose's voice was gentle, and soft, with an utterly calming effect that, much to Rose's embarrassment, had occasionally acted as a soporific on her husband), "it appears that your salon still thrives. There is… _one_ person I'd been hoping to meet, but it appears that he is not here."

"Really, Rose? Only one?" Marguerite took the opportunity to catch Paul Déroulède's eye (since Armand had proved spectacularly unhelpful) and point at Camille and then at Talma. Déroulède fortunately understood his appointed mission and, witha terrified and indignant Camille in tow, brushed by them to talk to Talma.

"Yes, only one. Though that _one_ is just as interesting to me as an entire houseful of guests. Who's the tall blond gentleman escorting you everywhere, Margot?" Rose, ever the hopeless romantic, smiled sweetly and sat down on the chaise lounge with Madame Lavoisier. "He is quite dashing. You look very well together, and he seem**s** quite enamored of you."

Marguerite suddenly discovered how complicated it was to sit down without creasing one's dress, and blushing--out of embarrassment at her gracelessness, she was sure-- spent several minutes smoothing out her skirts. "Oh, you mean Sir Percy I suppose?"

"Sir Percy?" Rose asked, glancing over at Madame Lavoisier. Madame Lavoisier was not quite as interested in Sir Percy, however, and continued to scrutinize the group in the corner. Marguerite and Rose shared a look and the latter announced, "I saw you with him in the _Jardin__ de __Palais__ Royale_ yesterday. What were you doing? You appeared to be rather close."

It was a very clever move on Rose's part; Madame Lavoisier needed to be distracted before Cousin Louis took offence at her stares and comments—and, alas, cousin Louis was always so terribly quick to take offence-- and Marguerite was well versed in charming an audience and putting herself at the center of attention.

"Well, if you insist on hearing a back story," Marguerite teased, not waiting for Rose to insist. "Well, despite marital law and the constant threat of another attack by an outraged mob, it was just lovely yesterday- little wonder that the British baronet who was supposed to be walking me home from rehearsal but had ended up taking me to the _Jardin__ de __Palais__ Royale_ instead."

Rose made appropriately interested sounds and Marguerite felt nettled that Madame Lavoisier was still glaring at Cousin Louis.

"Sir Percy smiled, as usual, and said nothing, so I, watching him very carefully said, 'It's almost romantic, is it not?' to which he replied with a very eloquent, 'Yes.' Well, there was obviously no help coming from that quarter, so I said, 'And the park is just lovely today, is it not?' He agreed again and, alas! That was his answer to everything. Do you like the _Jardin__ de __Palais__ Royale_ better than the _Jardin__ de Luxembourg_?" Marguerite drew herself up very stiffly and affected Sir Percy's inane, pleasant smile and his British drawl. "Yes." And then as herself again: "I suppose the walks are better here." As Sir Percy: "Yes." As herself: "Is it anything like England?" As Sir Percy: "Yes." As herself, with exasperation evident in her tone: "Do you prefer England to France, then?" As Sir Percy: "They're both demmed marvelous, Mademoiselle Saint-Just."

Rose stifled a giggle and Madame Lavoisier (at last!) failed to glare at Cousin Louis. "Where ever did you meet such a character, Margot?" Rose asked.

"I met Sir Percy had met in '89 at the dinner for the Flanders's Regiment. I had quite forgotten it, but Sir Percy had not, and he said he was delighted to run into me during the Champs de Mars Massacre. Quite literally, you know. Armand was in the amphitheatre when the National Guard stormed in, so I tried to rush in and grab him, but Sir Percy quite got in my way. I broke the heel off my favorite pair of shoes in the process-"

"Quelle horreur!" Rose murmured.

"-so Sir Percy went in and fetched Armand instead. Very noble of him, was it not? I quite like him for it."

Marguerite "quite liked" Sir Percy not only for rescuing Armand from the scene of the massacre but for the small things that she was unable to fully explain to Rose or Madame Lavoisier: the way he laughed, half-shyly, as if unwilling to show it; the way he had asked-- begged permission, rather-- for the privilege of escorting her to and from the theatre until the Assembly reinstated civil law (simply because he was worried about her safety since Armand couldn't escort her himself); the way he carried himself, so that, though he was over six feet, and never seemed to dominate a conversation or crowd a room; the way he looked when he genuinely smiled instead of his usual inane, polite little half- grin; the way his hair caught the light and acquired a golden sheen; the way he'd secretly press a few extra _sous_ into a gamin's hand; and even though a regular set of his clothes was more expensive than some houses in Provence, the way he never hesitated to shield her with his cloak when it was raining.

"And that is the only reason you tolerate his company?" Rose asked, gently touching Madame Lavoisier on the arm and keeping her from glaring into the corner again.

"In addendum, he is handsome, has a latent wit, and buys me flowers."

"Those are passably good reasons," admitted Rose with a laugh.

Madame Lavoisier managed a smile, only because Rose always made sure that her good spirits were contagious, and Marguerite made sure that she always entertained.

"You can't fault me for not having more, Rose. I only just met him a few days ago. You would be so proud of me if I told you how fiendishly hard I tried to see the 'real' Sir Percy. Have you ever noticed how British people seem so reserved in company? So very different from a citizen of our beautiful France! You never can quite discern a British personality until after a few meetings. I think it may be more. Can you believe that we- or, I, rather- discussed French politics, poetry, David's latest painting, the Indian Raj, poetry again, and in a last vain resort, the weather, and Sir Percy just smiled genially and- lucky me!- replied in monosyllables? If I was lucky, I received an entire _sentence_ accented with this dry, self-depreciating wit. It's so very British. Very refreshing. So I was forced to marshal my forces, so to speak." At Rose's inquisitive look, Marguerite colored. "Oh, you know Rose! Looking up at a man slowly from underneath the brim of your hat, pretending to blush, trailing an arm down your neck." A bit pettishly: "I have no idea why it didn't work. I was wearing a very pretty hat, too."

"Oh, the dark blue one with the white feather?" asked Rose, who could never contain herself when it came to fashion. "I got one just like it just yesterday, in purple."

"Yes! A positively charming design!"

"He should have blushed, at least."

"Not even when I pouted." Marguerite looked heavenward and, calling her histrionic powers to the fore, pressed one hand to her heart and pressed the back of the other to her forehead. "Imagine! I, an actress, unable to make a man react to anything I did, not even when I-" (with a cringe) "-had to _pout_ at him. The British are made of _wood_, I swear. I would never wish any French actress a British audience. Oh! I did get a grin, though-a very bashful one, thank goodness. So I said, very teasingly, 'Sometimes I wonder, Sir Percy, what you think.' And, would you believe it? He actually said something in response. Granted it was, 'About what, Mademoiselle Saint-Just?', but I did feel that I was making great strides, so I shrugged at him and glanced up at him from under my hat brim again and said, 'Everything. You're so reserved I feel that even if I was constantly in your company for months, I would still have no idea who you are. Then the infuriating man replied- utterly imperturbable and with so much _sang-froid_ it would put a lizard to shame- 'Of course you would, Mademoiselle, I'm Sir Percy Blakeney, baronet, and your faithful servant.' Of course, I couldn't hold my temper at that, so I said, 'There you go again, Sir Percy! It's as if we'd been dancing all night at some _bal__ masque_, and I'd taken off my mask, but you hadn't taken off yours!'Sir Percy said nothing, and we watched a flock of gamins chase a policeman down the avenue, but I felt the muscles of his arm grow tense."

"Did you offend him?" Rose asked.

"I hardly knew!" Marguerite exclaimed with an incredulous laugh. "I was bored stiff, though, so I started rambling a bit. I think it was something along the lines of, 'I suppose it must be a divide between the British and the French, then. If you ask a Frenchman a question about a subject he is passionate about, he will immediately begin arguing with you… or perhaps I just haven't asked you about anything you are passionate about?' So I did one of these-" she propped her chin in one hand and held her elbow with the other, with something of a pout, and a cutely curious expression. "- and said, 'Hm… now, what on earth does Sir Percy Blakeney, baronet, love most?' Sir Percy smiled, of course." Affecting Sir Percy's mannerisms: "I think that should be easy to guess." A pause, and then as herself, she said, "Of course, it _wasn't_, and I just gave him a look. He looked vaguely passionate for a moment, but as soon as he added a, "Mademoiselle Saint-Just", it was gone. Sir Percy retreated back behind his smile and then clasped his arms behind his back and started _walking away_. It was terribly disappointing. I had been expecting _something_, anything, really, before Sir Percy apparently remembered whom he was talking to- a French actress- and fell silent."

Rose clucked in sympathy. Madame Lavoisier, in turn, looked inscrutable and shook her head. "I don't think that is _quite_ the correct interpretation of his actions, but you would know him best," she said quietly.

Puzzled, Marguerite glanced at Madame Lavoisier. "I suppose he did think it very obvious- it must be something he talks about voluntarily, judging by the fact that his idea of a normal conversation is agreeing to everything one says. He did mention travel when we were waiting for a doctor to see to Armand, so I suppose that was it. I didn't remember it then, though, so I just heaved an overdramatic sigh, pouted again, and said, 'Come now- I shall have to guess at it. How cruel you are!' Oh! How right you are, Madame Lavoisier. He looked disappointed after I'd said that. I suppose he thought I'd remember."

Madame Lavoisier looked vaguely superior and very much as if she knew something Marguerite did not. Marguerite ignored her. "He did _speak_, though, which I hold to be quite an accomplishment. He drawled out a, 'Do forgive me, Mademoiselle Saint-Just, but I am no crueler than you. Demme, requiring a British gentleman to be passionate in public? You might as well ask one to walk across the channel.' So _I_ said, 'Sir Percy, must I remind you that you are no longer in London? You have crossed the channel already, and are in _Paris_, where passion reigns and the republic rules. After all, when in Rome….' And then I did one of these-" Marguerite pushed her ringlets behind her shoulder, exposing her neck and an expanse of shoulder "-and told him he could call me Marguerite."

Rose 'oo'ed appreciatively. "A blush, at least!"

"Finally!"

Madame Lavoisier now looked very superior indeed.

"Marie- Anne, you look as if you know the reasons for the _Anglais_'s actions," Rose remarked, flipping her fan open to hide her bad teeth. "Have your husband's scientific methods rubbed off on you enough to divine the reason behind everything?"

"I am familiar with such behavior at the very least, and I believe I can posit a very reasonable hypothesis on his actions, based on previous, correct conclusions, and certain… similarities in reactions based on prior study."

Rose looked relieved, and Marguerite, who was not as well acquainted with Madame Lavoisier, took it as an indication that Madame Lavoisier was beginning to sound more like herself. Marguerite just grinned at her success, refusing to consider what conclusions Madame Lavoisier had drawn. Marguerite had learned very early on in her career that very few people had opinions worth listening to and tended to believe- upon first acquaintance with anyone who was not a critic- that everyone was more-or-less a member of an audience she ought to charm and ought to ignore if they weren't as charmed as they should be.

"And did he actually answer you, Margot?"

"I guessed. 'Cricket?' asked I. 'Demmed marvelous sport,' said he. 'Three words instead of one,' said I. 'What an accomplishment. Fishing?' Admitted he: 'I am fond of it.'" Marguerite found it increasingly easier to ape Sir Percy when she recited his replies. Along with the horrible accent, there was a certain decorous reserve when he drawled out his sentences, a shyness entirely unexpected, and a certain amusement in everything spoken that Marguerite could not find the reason for. He was either very stupid or remarkably clever.

Sir Percy was fascinating to puzzle out. It was much the same feeling as when Marguerite had torn layers and layers of brown paper off of her first, fully dressed doll, and pulled off all the panniers and petticoats to run her fingers across the porcelain surface. "I was quite astonished he had strung five words together, of course, and said as much. I thought I should soon have a whole sentence from him. He was very sweet about it. 'I would not doubt it, Mad- Mar, er- I wouldn't doubt it. You are demmed effective at charming a fellow into talking.' 'Ah!' said I. 'You see how quickly I can work? A sentence already. From all the time you'll have spent with me, I daresay you shall go back to Britain and astonish everyone with your minute-long monologues on-' Oh, you will never guess, Rose! He actually volunteered a piece of information. I'm rather sure that he was just being flippant, but he said, 'cravats' and started telling me some very strange little story about the lengths he went to in India trying to buy a reasonably priced length of silk for a cravat. He and his valet dressed up as natives and followed the butler- who really was a native- out to market. Sir Percy pretended to be a deaf- mute so the vendor wouldn't hear his accent and raise the price. I didn't think that he had it in him to be at all cunning."

"What a fascinating character you've met!" Rose exclaimed. "Your fans are always such interesting people."

"Armand used to joke that it was because anyone who fancied me must be mad." Marguerite looked heavenward. "Oh God bless younger brothers."

"Shall we meet your Englishman today? Marie-Anne, you can speak with him, can't you?"

"Yes, I learned English to help my Antoine." Madame Lavoisier's face lit up at the mention of her husband. It was well known that the Lavoisiers had married for love, and for that, Madame Lavoisier was an object of envy to the women who had married to appease their families, like Rose, or who had never married, like Marguerite.

"I _did _invite Sir Percy," Marguerite whispered as if relating some scandal. "Now, shall I get you both something to drink? Madame Lavoisier, perhaps you would like to meet Talma? We're going right back to doing _L'Intrigue__épistolaire_once the curfew's been lifted."

Madame Lavoisier admitted an interest in meeting Talma, while Rose decided upon a drink. After a round of introductions, Marguerite and Rose headed towards the back corner and the sideboard.

The group of politicians had splintered off into groups of two or three, each trying to come to terms with his own thoughts and course of action before rejoining the others. Only cousin Louis, Armand, and Robespierre still sat in the back corner. Armand, lost in his own thoughts, stared at a copy of Marat's newspaper, _L'Ami__ du __Peuple_without reading it. Louis pulled a rose out of the vase of flowers on the sideboard then, still in high dudgeon, pulled the petals off and impaled them on the thorns of the stem. Robespierre, who rather liked roses, reached out and placed one thin white hand on Louis's.

Louis put the flower down, though he appeared to be pouting. "Roses have no purpose but to hide the sword."

"Then don't destroy them," Robespierre murmured, almost sharply. Illness made him hypersensitive, and exhausted tears were in his sea-green eyes. Bother it all. Marguerite knew she shouldn't have allowed cousin Louis to come. "They may yet have their use. And, if not, they have their place in the world and may remind us of the goodness we once had, and the virtue we may one day restore."

Marguerite greeted them warmly, hoping to thaw Louis from his frigid, disapproving demeanor and to give Robespierre a moment to rediscover his own coolness and composure. Marguerite never liked cousin Louis's coldness, which she often felt stemmed from a lack of feeling, but could appreciate Robespierre's, since his stemmed from an inner moral purity that often bewildered those who didn't know him. "Hello again- pray forgive me. I didn't mean to intrude upon such a conversation, but I will posit that roses have their uses. What is life without a little beauty? Then there is their symbolic significance-- love! Life means very little without love, and I am convinced it may be the one thing that causes most of, if not all, our actions. Besides which, if you scatter rose petals all over the carpet, Louis, Louise will get very upset with you and serve you cold coffee the next time you come, and refuse to let me ever buy roses again. Speaking of roses-- Rose! I got Louise to find some of the spiced wine you like. Ah, here it is. Citoyen Robespierre-- more watered wine for you?"

"Coffee, if you have it," Robespierre said, absently and worriedly rubbing his nails against the palm of his other hand. He looked much more ill than usual. His skin was as pale as his powdered hair, and there were bruise- like dark circles under his eyes, all the more visible because he'd pushed his green-tinted glasses up onto his hair.

According to Armand, the thought of all the violence of the past few days had made Robespierre so wretchedly ill that his normal absent-mindedness had grown almost deadly. It caused his usually calm sister, Charlotte, to have a near nervous breakdown because she didn't know where he was. Fortunately, a carpenter-- Duplay, according to Louis-- had found Robespierre wandering around the streets, horrifically sick after the massacre, and had taken him in.

"Would you care for coffee? Armand? Louis?" Marguerite handed Rose a full glass and checked to see if the coffee was still hot.

"I'm fine, Margot." Armand anxiously tore ragged strips off of an old copy of _L'Ami__ Du __Peuple_without realizing he was doing so.

"Armand?"

He looked at her with some confusion before Marguerite gestured at his hands with the coffee pot.

"Oh." He shoved the scraps off of his lap and then walked over to the window seat, limping slightly. Armand had injured his foot at the Champs de Mars massacres and the sight of his bandages still caused Marguerite momentary flashes of panic.

Louis tossed the rose back onto the sideboard, his every movement slow and carefully calculated. He leaned back in his chair with a façade of ease, his gold earrings glinting in the bright afternoon sunlight. "I should like some wine."

He was in a rare mood. There were times when Louis crackled with intelligence and he wrapped everyone within his reasoning and his arguments. He was fascinating then, beautiful and almost dangerous, with an eloquence that drew everyone in, like moths to a flame. Of course, there were also times when he would be horribly nasty to everyone and not even Marguerite's attempts to get him talking about the unparalleled glories of Spartan society (a particular passion of his) could derail him.

With a smile like a knife's edge, Louis continued, "You're as gracious a hostess as ever, dear cousin. Such a… _variety_ of guests in your salon. The wife of a Parisian tax collector-- I half expect an Austrian monarch next."

"Brains, not birth," Marguerite reminded him while handing Robespierre a porcelain cup of lukewarm coffee.

With icy formality that was only slightly cracked at the edges, Robespierre thanked her. Logic over emotion and good manners always-- Robespierre was quick to feel and quicker to repress. Marguerite again marveled that someone like Robespierre had gained her vicious cousin as a disciple. Louis could be a pretty- faced bundle of nastiness and generally did whatever he felt like- including stealing his mother's silver and writing lewd poetry on the proceeds. Marguerite was quite sure that Robespierre had never had an immoral thought in his life.

"I also thank you, _citoyenne_," Robespierre continued, as cold, quiet, and grave as ever, "for the use of your salon. We had much to discuss and still have a great deal more to talk about." He pushed his glasses back down with one thin hand, his composure in place once again.

"Oh, if there is anything _I _may do for the good of the republic, I shall do it," Marguerite replied with a sunny smile.

Just as the ice began to thaw at the advent of spring, Robespierre appeared to relax in the face of Marguerite's good humor. Admittedly, he looked at Madame de Beauharnais warily and when he turned slightly to look at Madame Lavoisier at the other end of the room, it was with the utmost suspicion. "Do I have your word on that?"

"My _promise_ on that, _citoyen_! I shall not go back on my word." Marguerite caught his look and motioned to Rose. "I am sure that you know Rose de Beauharnais? She is the wife of Alexandre de Beauharnais-- you know, the president--"

"Of the Constituent Assembly," Robespierre finished. "For a term. Forgive me. I did not make the connection before."

Rose smiled. She and her husband were not on the best of terms. Alexandre was both a solider and a chronic womanizer- both roles that kept him far from home. Rose and Alexandre both moved in very different circles of society and agreed that it was best to keep it that way. "There is nothing to forgive, _citoyen_."

Robespierre looked at her thoughtfully, and then allowed himself the slightest of nods. "You must be very glad his term ended before the seventeenth, citoyenne."

"He is more glad than I am. I must confess I am still shocked that such an event could even occur. What truly happened?"

Robespierre wearily launched into an explanation and Marguerite turned her attention back to the problem of reheating the coffee pot.

"I'll get a new one, Mam'zelle," Louise said, sntaching away the cup Marguerite poured out.

"It's fine as it is-"

"You'll not serve cold coffee to Monsieur Robespierre, Mademoiselle," Louise said, looking highly scandalized.

"It's not _cold_, exactly. It's just not warm."

Louise favored Marguerite with a look and, nose slightly in the air, took both the pot and the cup into the kitchen.

Louis raised an eyebrow. "Quite ruled by your maid, are you, dear cousin?"

"You're in a fine mood today, Louis."

Louis winced dramatically. "Antoine, Margot. It's _Antoine._ I don't want to share a name with Capet. Wasn't I to get a glass of spiced wine as well as Madame de Beauharnaise?"

Although Marguerite realized that it was most likely a terribly bad idea to give Louis alcohol when he was in a particularly vindictive mood, she poured him a glass of wine and handed it to him. He reached up, his long white fingers trailing unnecessarily against the soft skin of her wrist before he grasped the stem of the wine glass. Marguerite shot him an irritated glare and pulled her hand away as soon as she was sure the wine wouldn't spill.

"Who's in the fine mood?" Louis asked, with a smirk.

"Behave yourself," Marguerite retorted, crossing her arms a bit pettishly. "Honestly, _Louis_. Why you are allowed in even relatively polite society I shall never understand. Your mother ought to have left you in the Bastille for stealing her spoons."

Louis ignored her and turned his attention to Rose, who had finished her conversation with Robespierre. "To dredge up an old point, what is your opinion on roses, _Citoyenne_ Beauharnais? As a Rose yourself, you must have must have much to say on such a subject. I still admit that I find them useless."

Diplomatic as ever, Rose ignored the slight and began, "I do agree that a rose may sometimes hide a blade." She managed a small smile. "My husband is a soldier, after all. But I do love roses-- they have such infinite variety and such an array of uses! Rosewater is always valuable, whether in baking or bathing-- or even in medicine. I doubt that there is anyone who can see or smell a rose and remain glum or ill. I cultivate and breed roses myself, actually."

"Do you?" Robespierre asked with a scarcely suppressed flicker of interest in his sea-green eyes. "I find that here, in Paris, there is usually not enough sunlight for flowers to really thrive."

Robespierre and Rose then began an intriguing and entirely unexpected discussion on botany. Marguerite, in turn, pretended that the room was stuffy and she needed to open a window. She tried to studiously ignore Louis and any possible reactions he had and almost succeeded. Louis, of course, knew exactly how to irritate her and thus took her hand and kissed it. He pressed it to his chest dramatically, his golden earrings glinting at her.

"Dear cousin, I think only of your safety. Inviting royalists? We Saint- Justs are well known republicans and after what happened to Armand, I would think that you would have learned some caution. You are family, after all- the only family that will still acknowledge my existence and which I do not dislike on principle. Mother dislikes you as much as she dislikes me, after all. Your safety is my chief concern."

"As is yours to me," Marguerite said, pleasantly enough. "And I must warn you of an imminent threat to your own safety. If you do not release my hand soon I will have some difficulty pouring Citoyen Robespierre a cup of coffee and thus may end up spilling the entire pot, freshly reheated by Louise, onto your lap."

Louis released her hand as Louise came back into the room with a hot cup of coffee, as if on cue, and gave it to Citoyen Robespierre. Marguerite announced very loudly that the room was getting stuffy and stormed over to the windows.

Armand, sitting in the window seat, allowed Marguerite a few moments to silently fume and unlock the windows with more force than would ever be necessary.

"I should _never_ have invited Louis," she hissed after a few moments. To take the edge off her anger, she roughly shoved the long white muslin curtains out of the way. "I should have known he'd be-"

"He wants me to give a speech calling for the death of the king," Armand announced abruptly. "And join the Jacobin club."

Marguerite accidentally opened the windows with a show of force that nearly broke the glass. They slammed against the outside wall of the apartment, startling the guests.

"The silly things wouldn't open," Marguerite called brightly and turned to her guests with a laugh. "I think it must be the only part of my salon truly stuck in its ways. Nothing like a bit of revolutionary force to get things moving, is there?"

There was a polite titter of laughter, and Marguerite turned her attention back to Armand. "He wanted you to do what, Armand? You're a moderate member of the _Cercle__ Social_ and very much _not _a Jacobin. Louis should know that. And, _mon__Dieu_, what a speech! And what a dangerous topic. Beheading the king would be an open invitation to war."

"The Jacobin Club is splitting as a result of the Champs de Mars massacre, Marguerite," Armand explained, shredding _L'Ami__ du __Peuple_into a tiny mound of confetti. "Robespierre heads the faction which demands the institution of a full republic, while the other will stand by our current constitutional monarchy. And if I, a known and well-respected moderate, move to an opinion so radical that few would even begin to think of it…."

"But you would vote for a republic regardless of party ties," Marguerite retorted, glaring out the window at the falsely calm afternoon. _Paris shouldn't be so sunny __while in__such turmoil,_ she thought, scowling.

"It's the numbers more than anything, Marguerite. If Louis can truthfully say that the representatives flocked to Robespierre after the Champs de Mars massacre in his speeches to the Assembly, think how much more support there will be for a republic! Besides, he knows Robespierre will head the winning party. Any way he can strengthen his ties is… well, is, euh… you know--" Armand had his moments of eloquence. However, this wasn't one of them, and it irritated Marguerite to no end. "Louis knows that this would strengthen our ties to Robespierre-- well, Louis's ties, more than ours, I suppose, but us as well. If I get up and support Robespierre's party, then some of the other moderates will follow my lead, and _voila_! A republic. With or without a headless ex-monarch wandering around somewhere in the memories of the nation."

Marguerite blew a stray curl out of her eyes and plopped down inelegantly beside her brother on the window seat. "I hate it when there's actual reasoning behind Louis's insanity."

Armand's shadow of a smile flickered briefly across his face. "It does happen sometimes, Margot. As long as you don't have any other guests that could possibly clash with our dear cousin, everything should be perfectly alright."

Louise slid back to Marguerite's side and curtsied. "Sir Percy is at the backdoor, Mademoiselle."

"What?"

Louise threw her hands up in the air. "Englishmen are all mad, Mam'zelle. All completely mad."

"Well… let him in and bring him up, I suppose. At the servant's entrence? Dressed as he usually dresses?"

"Very much the dandy, Mam'zelle," Louise said. "His valet must be very accomplished. The embroidery on his vest…" Louise sighed with envy before dropping another curtsy and bringing Sir Percy into the salon through the kitchen door.

Marguerite stood-- truth be told, a bit more quickly than she'd intended to-- and smiled. Sir Percy had to hunch, slightly, to fit through the doorway. He was as immaculately dressed as ever, from his impressively white and complexly knotted cravat to the shiny golden buckles on his shoes. He bowed deeply, every inch the English gentleman, with an inherent nobility-

Nobility? Oh no, oh no, oh no…..

"Armand, do you know what Sir Percy's political beliefs are?" Marguerite asked from behind her smile.

"He's best friends with the Prince of Wales, I think," Armand replied doubtfully, sweeping the confetti off his lap and struggling to his feet. "No doubt he's a royalist."

Marguerite thought of several very rude things she'd learned from eavesdropping on stagehands but eventually settled on giving the curtains one more whack before she walked across the room.

Startled, Armand looked at her.

"La," Marguerite said with a smile still pleasant and easy from years of practice, "we shall have to make sure he's never introduced to cousin Louis."


	2. In Which Sir Percy Puts in an Appearance

"Sir Percy!" Marguerite cried warmly, holding her hand out to him. "How wonderful to see you again! I am _so_ glad you could make it to my salon."

Sir Percy took her hand and bowed over it properly, brushing his lips against her knuckles. "Mademoiselle Saint-Just! It quite astonishes me how you can grow lovelier and lovelier every time I see you."

Marguerite laughed off the compliment and pressed his hand. "The answer is simple, Sir Percy-- with practice. My maid continues to perfect her art that I may appear in public much more fashionably turned out than the day before."

Marguerite's maid Louise, standing at the door, glanced heavenward but looked pleased nonetheless.

"It must help her original canvas was flawless to begin with," Sir Percy replied, with a somewhat lopsided grin that Marguerite found oddly endearing.

"Well, if you are determined to compliment me, I shan't stop you." Realizing that her hand was still in Sir Percy's, Marguerite withdrew it and cleared her throat.

To whom was it safe to introduce him? Rose and Madame Lavoisier, obviously; Talma, probably; he knew Armand, as well as Paul Déroulède, who had been an aristocrat and resident at Versailles before he became a representative. He'd met Fauve at the same time he'd met Marguerite, back in '89, but hadn't met Fauve's husband-- Ah, Chernier should be safe. Thusly, Marguerite picked the group of thespians in the middle of the room and began leading Sir Percy over.

"Come and sit down. Would you care for any refreshments, my dear Sir Percy? Louise is quite accomplished with pastries. She used to be engaged to a baker."

Sir Percy shook his head. "No, and I thank you, Mademoiselle. Oh-- hello Monsieur Saint-Just! Your foot healed yet?"

"Slowly but surely," Armand said with a grin. "Glad to see you, Sir Percy." A few of the other representatives caught Armand's eye and gestured him over. "I'll let Margot take care of you. I have some... euh… matters of business to take care of. Politics, rather. Have to be dealt with."

Armand limped over, and Marguerite led Sir Percy over to where Talma entertained the largest group in the salon. He appeared to be relating some humorous incident that involved the artist David pouring a bucket of paint on a less than competent apprentice.

"And I said, 'David, I know that we're supposed to be putting on a tragedy where everyone _dies_ in the end, but should you kill your assistant there, I believe that is a little _too much_ realism in theatre'," Talma concluded, with a theatric flick of the wrist and a grin at the laughter and applause from his audience.

"That's Talma," Marguerite whispered to Sir Percy, clapping. "I work with him. He's one of the premier actors in France, and he's certainly the greatest Tragedian. Next to him are Fauve and her husband Chartier, Mademoiselle Sainval, the Marquis de Chauvelin, your friend Paul, and Madame Lavoi-"

"Ah, and a new victim!" Talma declared, turning around to interrupt Marguerite. He raised one dark eyebrow, his handsome features arranged into a pleasantly curious expression. "Tell me, Margot- how do you lure this one in? Where did he fall for your charms?"

"You quite overestimate my charms, Talma. This is Sir Percy--" Sir Percy bowed very properly "--and we met when the _Comédie- Française_ was boring the nobility to tears back in '89. You know, when we performed that absolutely horrendous version of the myth of Psyche at Versailles before the riots? Fauve, I'm sure you remember."

"Only too clearly," Fauve said dryly, downing the rest of her wine with a grimace. "I was Venus. For the life of me, I can't remember where you were Talma, or who you played. It was the night of the Flanders's Regiment, though, where everyone decided that it'd be a fantastic idea to start stomping on the tricolor."

"What a fantastic show of patriotism," Chauvelin said dryly, with one of his unamused little laughs. "I wonder you how could stand to see it."

"Gave me quite the headache," Fauve glanced over at Sir Percy and Marguerite. "Still gives me headaches."

"I can vouch for it," her husband, Chartier added, which earned him a smack on the hand with Fauve's fan.

"If you met him in '89, why has he been missing from your salon for two years, then?" asked Chauvelin, his oddly colored eyes alighting on Sir Percy in careful scrutiny.

"I've been in the East for the past two years," Sir Percy replied pleasantly, with his easy half-shy smile. "Odd's fish. It's rather difficult to attend a salon in Paris whilst livin' in India."

"I just met him again on the seventeenth," Marguerite explained with a smile. "He rescued Armand from inside the Amphitheatre."

Sir Percy blushed furiously at the polite murmurs of approval this statement elicited from the members of Marguerite's salon. "Demme, I just grabbed the lad on m'way out. There isn't anythin' particularly special in all that."

Marguerite turned to him incredulously. "You walked back into an Amphitheatre where the National Guards were firing on the people and you say that you just 'grabbed Armand on your way out'?"

"Well, I grabbed him the second time I went out." Another titter of laughter burst from the group. Sir Percy had some wit, some experience of travel, and some bravery, and thus had been accepted into the salon. Marguerite was oddly pleased.

Madame Lavoisier smiled. "How very British of you to say so." Then, in very careful English she added, "I guess zat it is a British trait, ze giving up of glory, euh… of praise after 'eroism. Is it?"

Sir Percy brightened at the sound of his native language. He usually spoke in French to Marguerite, since Marguerite's grasp of English was shaky at best (she had no need to speak English since her school girl days) and very few French men or women would ever voluntarily speak English when given the chance to speak in their own language.

"I'm sure it is, but that wasn't the case here. Odd's fish, anyone would've done the same. Might I compliment you on your English, though, er, Mademoiselle…?"

"Madame Lavoisier."

"Are you married to the science-y chap, then? Zounds, there was a time when the Duchess of Devonshire was absolutely enthralled with his experiments, and she did away with all the faro tables in her salon to make way for beakers and things. Prinny-- er, sorry-- the Prince of Wales was absolutely astonished at how much your husband discovered, though, and what's-his-name… er, Cavendish, George-anya's scientific prodigy, entertained the whole salon with re-enactments of your husband's experiments. The whist tables came right back after that, but zounds! If he got the Duchess to quit gambling for an evening, then he's worked wonders."

Madame Lavoisier glowed at the praise. "Yes, I am married to Antoine Lavoisier. Who is this Duchess of Devonshire? She is a friend of the queen, I am zinking."

"Er, yes, she is. She and the queen and the duchess of Polignac are fast friends. She had me help the duchess out of the country, actually, back in '89. Lovely woman, George-anya."

"Come now-- we are in Paris!" Fauve called in French. "It seems unpatriotic to speak in English. I propose that we change the subject of conversation and force Sir Percy and Madame Lavoisier to speak French."

"Ah, and what are we to talk about, Fauve?" Marguerite asked with a smile.

"How Citoyen Robespierre has lovely cheekbones," Fauve answered promptly, looking as serene as ever.

Chartier looked vaguely disturbed.

Sir Percy stifled a laugh with a rather believable cough and sat down in the empty armchair between the chaise lounge and Madame Lavoisier.

Marguerite blinked, then, despite her better judgment, turned and looked at Citoyen Robespierre, who was still happily discussing roses with Madame de Beauharnais.

"Euh… it… does appear so."

"No wonder he's got such a female following," Talma said dryly. "One look at his cheekbones and Rousseau gains immediate appeal. I could have used such a gift in _Le Journaliste dans les Ombres_. Perhaps my Rousseau would then have been better liked."

"Come now, Talma. You were critically acclaimed for that!" Marguerite swept her skirts out of the way and sat down next to him on the chaise lounge. At Sir Percy's quizzical expression she added, "It was a short topical play by Aude- we did it ages ago and Talma's still hung up on the fact that he didn't pull in as large an audience as he expected to. Talma played Rousseau in it. What was it _Le Moniteur_ said about the show? You were uncanny in costume and performance, or something like that?"

"And didn't you look handsome in costume!" exclaimed Mademoiselle Sainval, a fellow actress who was always alive to beauty in her fellow man. "The only time you looked better was as Cinna. I should love it if togas came back into fashion."

Talma inclined his head modestly. "Ah, it does my heart good to hear it. I quite like this new resurgence of interest in Rome."

"It does fit the political climate," Marguerite mused aloud. "After all, we are entertaining the idea of a republic for the first time _since_ Rome."

"And th-thus our puh-plays ruh-ruh-reflect their huh-history," Camille Desmoulins interjected, wandering over with his wife, and taking a seat. "Cuh- cuh- Camille Duh- Desmuh- moulins, buh-by th-the wuh-way. Thuh-this is muh-my luh-lovely wife, Lucille." He kissed his wife's hand reverently, and held out his free hand to Sir Percy. "Tuh-technically, yuh-yuh-you shouldn't knuh-know we're huh-here."

"We're in hiding!" Lucille Desmoulins piped in brightly, taking the unoccupied chair next to her husband. She seemed rather thrilled by the idea of needing to go into hiding, as if she were a child that had just been told she was going on holiday.

Sir Percy stood, bowed, and shook Camille's hand before sitting back down again. "Sir Percy Blakeney, baronet, at your service. I would say I'm delighted to meet you, but I think I shall have to pretend that I never met you the next time I see you."

"A wise course of action," Chauvelin said carefully, taking out a snuff box and flipping open the lid with a fingernail, "such as any Sybil would advise." He took a pinch of snuff and neatly tucked the box back into his waistcoat pocket.

"Roman mythology takes its turn too, then," Lucille added, smiling rather perkily. "It's a shame we don't have augurs any more. I do so like the idea of watching where birds fly and using them to tell the future. Quite the subordination of mankind to nature!"

"One may also see that when Aeneas's heroic Trojan fleet is devastated in a storm at sea," Chauvelin replied. He did not hold with the new Romantic ideals then coming into vogue and, more particularly, always held that intellect would triumph over any other force.

"Speaking of mythology, doesn't your cousin just look as _handsome _as Adonis, Marguerite?" Mademoiselle Sainval gushed, looking happily at Louis, the picture of dissatisfied elegance, as he lounged in the window seat, his long dark hair blowing around his shoulders. His eyes and earrings glinted with the same blinding intensity.

Marguerite's good mood began to ebb more noticeably. "We are discussing _Roman_, not _Greek _mythology, my dear Mademoiselle Sainval, but I will grant you that he's been stationary long enough to resemble a Greek statue. The similarities must end there. I cannot think that anyone who knows Louis would ever think him a fulfillment of the Greek ideals. His personality somewhat tarnishes his lovely sheen."

Talma grinned. "How cruel your wit can be, Marguerite, my dear."

"I learned it from you," Marguerite replied pertly.

"Buh-buh-but I duh-duh-duh-do agree!" stammered out Camille Desmoulins, flushing almost childishly in his anger. "Fuh-forguh-give the language, but duh-duh-duh-damn thuh-the muh-man!"

"Mocking my Camille like that!" Lucille chimed in, looking properly indignant. "How many revolutions has _he_ started? Camille jumped up on a table, said a speech, and, _voila_! We took the Bastille."

"And all wearing green leaves and ribbons in our hat bands and lapels," Mademoiselle Sainval added dreamily. "Green looks good on just about everyone, too. Some complexions simply do not _go_ with red at all—that is the only complaint I have with our new patriotic colors."

Chauvelin pinched the bridge of his nose. "Forgive us for not taking fashion into account when we created a symbol to unify France."

"We couldn't stick with green," Paul Déroulède interjected mildly. "It was the color of the Duke D'Orleans. Surely the red and blue of Paris, and the white of the Bourbon line speak more to us as a people. It was a prayer for unity-- of ideals, of government--"

"Not of government," Chauvelin cut in.

"Certainly not," Talma murmured.

"Therefore green is a much more patriotic color!" Mademoiselle Sainval declared triumphantly. "Oh, how lucky for us!"

"Not everyone looks good in green," Fauve protested serenely. "Besides which, green is the color of absolute monarchy, darling, and that sort of government is quite _passé_."

As the conversation continued on in such a fashion, Marguerite glanced over at Sir Percy, who was almost grinning.

"Just what are you doing that you find so amusing, Sir Percy?" Marguerite asked in a softer tone and leaned over the arm of the chaise lounge to talk to him while the rest of her guests were absorbed in the argument.

"I'm cravat-watching," Sir Percy said, blue eyes catching the afternoon sunlight and twinkling. "Demme, it's what I do whenever arguments or conversation grow ridiculous."

"Cravat- watching?" Marguerite inquired, amused despite of herself. "You must teach me how to play!"

Sir Percy grinned half-shyly and half-excitedly, which made him seem much younger than he was. (How old was he, actually? He had to be younger than thirty.) "Nothin' simpler Mademoiselle. How's your Latin?"

"Scarcely better than my English," Marguerite admitted wryly.

"That is quite alright, I assure you." Sir Percy leaned an arm on the arm of the couch and, in the tone of one imparting a scandalous secret, added, "My Latin is more lamentable than my French, if you can believe it."

Marguerite placed her hand on his in a show of faux sympathy. "Oh you poor darling. What does Latin have to do with cravat watching?"

For no immediately discernable reason, Sir Percy blushed and lost his somewhat tenuous grasp on French. After a few "Er"s, he managed to explain, "Er, cravat watching is like bird watching. You try and see how people tie their cravats. It's, er-- a bit like bird watching, only you can do it at parties and er, appear to be attentive." He smiled like a schoolboy, shy, embarrassed, bashful, and eager, all at once. "We came up with a Latin system of classification, actually. Not a very good one, but a system of classification none-the-less."

They spent a pleasant quarter of an hour mangling Latin and trying to avoid odd stares as they examined the cravats of Marguerite's guests.

"And Chauvelin's-- is zat a _pullus scindo_?" Marguerite asked in her out- of- practice English, resting her chin on her hands.

Sir Percy made a face. "The only word for that, Mademoiselle, is begad! Or, if you're searchin' for a phrase-- 'Good God, never again!'"

Marguerite laughed to draw back the attention of the members of her salon.

"And what are you two discussing so secretly?" Fauve asked, her blonde eyebrows raised in mock curiosity.

"Fashion!" Sir Percy replied promptly, at the same time as Marguerite's exclamation of "Latin!"

They caught each other's eye and laughed.

"Aren't we clever, tying in the two main subjects of conversation?" Marguerite exclaimed, bestowing a fond smile upon Sir Percy. Sir Percy blushed.

"Yes, but _we_ moved onto Rousseau," Talma replied. "You're behind the times, Margot, my dear! Let us move onto better societies full of people as innocent as they were meant to be, and not trap them in the idle fripperies of a corrupt society, or some such."

"Are you discussing Rousseau?" Robespierre called. His thin, pale face suddenly became animated.

"Yes," Chartier said mildly, which surprised nearly everyone. Chartier was the backstage partner of the _Théâtre de la République_ and had gotten very used to staying in the background, quietly working, while everyone else drew attention to themselves- which, after all, they were paid to do.

Robespierre walked over to the circle eagerly with Rose following after.

"And what is particularly under discussion?"

"The corrupting influence of society," Chartier replied. "I think so, in any case."

"Ah!" Robespierre exclaimed, his green eyes alight behind his tinted glasses. "That it is. I am of the opinion that we must get rid of this society-- this current one, which is so stained and tainted with its lack of virtue. It is too flawed to fix now, I am sure of it. The Champ de Mars massacre only proves our need for change. Immediate and complete change."

Camille sat up straighter in his chair. "Abuh-abolish th-the muh-monarchy, Muh- Maxime? Nuh not euh-even a cuh-cuh-constuh-tutional muh-monarchy?"

"Of course," cousin Louis asserted coolly, appearing behind the settee to general exclamations of alarm.

"Don't do that," Marguerite muttered, ruffled, as Talma pretended to recover from a heart attack.

"You-- you surely cannot mean that," Paul Déroulède said, almost sharply.

"No one can reign innocently." Louis leaned his elbows on the back of the chaise lounge, pale and immobile as any statue.

"All flaws in government and society, then, stem directly from the ruler?" Madame Lavoisier snapped.

"Louis," Marguerite hissed several times, turning to look at him. Louis looked remarkably innocent, like some avenging angel enlightening the trembling populace. Once she'd caught his attention, Marguerite went on, "That is a _rather_ limited definition. You cannot blame the failings of an entire society, or certain unalterable events, on one man. Surely, that man has assisted in expounding the misfortunes of 'his' country, but is not the corrupting influence of society at fault as well? If the king-- a person born innocent, just like you or I-- had not been raised in such a corrupt, debauched society as Versailles, perhaps he would have turned out to be a decent individual."

Robespierre looked at her severely.

"I am not arguing for a monarchy," Marguerite hastily added. "_Pardi! Vive la_ _république_! There is no way to justify an absolute monarchy, and it strikes me as morally wrong for an entire nation to be subjected to the will of one man. I merely think that you cannot blame that man for all the ills of the world when he is just as trapped in the social order as his so-called subjects."

"Which only proves the need for change," agreed Robespierre, looking more at ease now that Marguerite had firmly declared herself a Republican. Sir Percy glanced at Marguerite, vaguely surprised by this new outpouring of opinion.

Louis raised an eyebrow. "Then the fault must lie with the old king and the nobility that maintains our social divides, for they are the vice-ridden vermin with power and tainted gold who oppress the General Will of the people."

Chauvelin, himself a Marquis, shared a look with Paul Déroulède, also a member of the nobility.

"Ah, and the nobility are entirely to blame, then?" Chauvelin asked, running a finger along his lower lip. "Not one may turn his back on a society he knows to be unjust in order to help establish a better one? All his actions must stem from a character corrupted by the society that raised him, and thus every action stems solely from self- interest?"

"A man may not redeem himself for an accident of birth?" asked Déroulède, sounding slightly worried.

"Only in the republic of _vertu_," Robespierre mused. "But to do that requires an incredible change. We must have morality for egotism, probity for a mere _sense _of honor, principle for habit, duty for etiquette, the empire of reason for the tyranny of custom, contempt for vice, pride for insolence, large-mindedness for vanity, the love of glory for the love of money, good men for good company, merit for intrigue, talent for conceit, truth for show, the charm of happiness for the tedium of pleasure, the grandeur of man for the triviliality of grand society, a people magnanimous, powerful and free for a people lovable, frivolous and wretched-- that is to say all the virtues and miracles of the Republic for all the vices and puerilities of the monarchy."

"I should wonder what the international opinion on this would be," Rose murmured. "As much as we should all dearly love a republic, I fear Austria would not love it…quite as much."

"Huh-hang Auh-Austria and that duh-duh-damned _luh- l'Autrichienne_!" Camille declared, pounding his fist on the arm of his chair.

Déroulède, who was very fond of the queen, paled. "The Champs de Mars massacre wasn't enough bloodshed, I suppose?"

"Sir Percy!" Marguerite cried, hoping to drown out Déroulède. "You are from Britain, and without all of our natural inclinations towards France. What is your opinion?"

"Oh, er-- the international reactions?" Sir Percy was in completely over his head and looked it, too. Marguerite felt heartily ashamed of herself. Inviting a probable monarchist to a republican political salon….

"Demme, Austria's going to hate France no matter what she does."

Marguerite blinked. What a remarkable recovery. A factual statement that failed to reveal any hint of personal bias or opinion and could not offend anyone present? Who knew that someone as dully British as Sir Percy was capable of such subtlety! Marguerite was intrigued.

"If nuh-not for our ruh-ruh-ruh-republic, than fuh-for something euh-euh-else!" Camille agreed vehemently.

"For not letting the king escape," Lucille added. "Or for mistreating the Capets by failing to bow and scrape and treat them in the manner to which they are accustomed-- Pah! I would rather fight off a legion of Austrians than lower myself before such a family."

Robespierre nodded slowly, lips pursed. "I would by no means put the tyrants back in power, but I cannot think it right to go to war with Austria. How would that help our republic?"

"You know, Marguerite, I am simply amazed that you got Robespierre out of Madame Roland's salon," Fauve murmured. She had finished up a conversation with her husband, and leaned over to talk to Marguerite as the rest of the salon debated over the war with Austria. "You'd think he lived there-- it must be quite the accomplishment, getting members of the Left together whilst their party and press are under attack."

"You work miracles, my dear." Talma leaned back onto the couch with a smile. "Now, if you can only get our theatre to fill up again!"

"_Pardi!_ What kind of actress would you think me if I could not?" Marguerite raised her eyebrows and turned to Sir Percy. "You know, you've yet to see me in a performance recently, Sir Percy. I've much improved since '89."

"Are there performances at the, er… _Théâtre de la République_?" Sir Percy asked, glancing over at Talma.

Talma nodded. "There will be, as soon as the curfew is lifted."

"Then I shall go." After a moment's thought, Sir Percy added, "In fact, I'll take some of my friends along. They've been complaining of how bored they are with martial law in place."

Fauve held out a hand to her husband. Rather grudgingly, he counted out five francs and put them in her hand. "I shall look for you then," she announced, well pleased. "Perhaps you and your friends will find something to approve of in our changing society."

"Undoubtedly." There was something in Sir Percy's tone of voice that made Marguerite turn, and she abruptly colored when she found his eyes on her.

With a sigh, Chartier counted out another five francs onto his wife's open hand.


	3. In Which Marguerite Is Astonished

"Well, that has got to be the smallest audience I've ever seen," Madame Vestris, one of Marguerite's fellow actresses muttered as the guards pulled the curtains closed.

"It's not the size of the audience that counts," Mademoiselle Sainval reminded them all, in tones of loftiest formality that conveyed just the right hint of irony.

"Of course not," Fauve said from behind her painted smile. "It's the fact that they're all paying full price for their seats."

"I do lament the fact that there were so few seats filled," Talma replied wistfully, turning to look at the backdrop. "David painted this particularly for us- what a work of art, wasted!"

"At least we can sell it if things get horrifically bad," Fauve muttered, pulling out hairpins as she walked offstage. "Who wouldn't want to buy the work of a well- known delegate?"

Talma looked vaguely offended. He was very attached to his props, backdrops, and costumes. "Come off it. David's a model republican and a very good statesman."

"If the Austrians invade he can threaten to make satirical paintings and pour turpentine over them," muttered one of the actors. He was a new fellow and Marguerite was too discouraged to try and recall his name. "Jolly good. Failing that, he'll brandish a paintbrush at them. I feel secure."

"Oh stop it," Marguerite said, walking off as well. "War isn't eminent. As long as Robespierre maintains his influence it is very likely he can persuade the rest of the Assembly to keep out of battle. And Danton-"

"Marguerite, my dear, he's in England," said Madame Vestris.

"I never liked him anyway," Mademoiselle Sainval muttered. "He was so horrifically ugly. Made politics so unappealing."

"We are all so grateful that you are here to put things in such perspective," Madame Vestris snapped, pushing her way through the green room and stepping on the feet of anyone foolish enough to approach her.

Marguerite, feeling much too weary to try and be friendly to anyone, fled to her own room and collapsed into a chair. "Lock the door, Marianne."

Her dresser, a plump, romantic woman, did so, with a look of surprise replacing her usual, somewhat sappy look of overt sentimentality. Marianne looked particularly excited- a fact which irritated Marguerite more than it should have. No doubt someone had sent love notes again. Marguerite hated getting love notes. In her opinion and experience, love notes never ended well, both literally and figuratively, since the love notes Marguerite tended to receive got rather lewd at the end.

"What is it, Marianne?" Marguerite asked, still collapsed histrionically over a chair.

"You got a pair of gloves and _three_ bouquets, tonight!"

"Hm, rather less than before '90, but still a good night's work in terms of gifts from admirers. Is it safe to wear the gloves or shall I have to sell them?"

"They're from Sir Percy. His page said that his master apologizes profusely for ruining one of your pairs and hopes that these will make up from the losses you suffered."

Marguerite pulled off her stage wig and handed it to Marianne. "I haven't a clue what he- oh. He spilled a bit of tea on my hands at my salon the other day. The gloves can be cleaned though, as I told him repeatedly." Marguerite shook her head. "Well, sweet as he is, Sir Percy is… rather slow. I cannot follow his reasoning sometimes."

"I think it's just an excuse to buy you presents," Marianne chirped, beaming. She set the wig on its stand and touched up the curls.

"Ha ha ha," Marguerite said bleakly. "Do stop seeing romances everywhere. I like Sir Percy too much to let our relationship be ruined by such silliness." She struggled out of her dress. "Marianne!"

"Oh, your bustle." Marianne helped Marguerite out of her gown, and Marguerite, clad in her chemise, stays, and petticoat, dropped down in front of the mirror, wiping her heavy stage make-up of with a rag.

"You seem exhausted, Mademoiselle," Marianne commented.

"I feel it. What will happen if our audiences stay away? War with Austria seems imminent and do you know what will happen then? We're ill-equipped and ill-trained. Everyone hates us for entertaining the idea of a republic, the main leaders of our fledgling government are in hiding-"

Marianne looked blank.

Marguerite decided that Marianne could not handle the truth and said, heavy on the sarcasm, "All my handsome admirers left France. Sir Percy's the only tolerable one and he doesn't speak French."

Marianne clucked in sympathy and helped Marguerite dress again. "Poor Mademoiselle! But still, you might as well look pretty while you can." To that end, Marianne took some care buttoning up Marguerite's simple off-white dress and tying a broad blue sash about her waist.

Someone knocked on the door as Marianne tucked Margureite's loose curls of hair behind a blue bandeau.

"Go ahead and get it," Marguerite ordered tiredly. "It's probably Armand come to take me home. I hope it's Armand. I'd be glad even for Louis at this point."

"I'd always be glad for Louis Saint-Just!" Marianne exclaimed reverently, hurriedly finishing with Marguerite's hair.

Marguerite briefly toyed with the idea of saying that Marianne did not know her place and grew too bold before deciding it was a vastly stupid thing to say when social mores and social status were changing so quickly. She settled instead for: "You and half of all the women of Paris. Door, Marianne."

To Marguerite's vague disappointment, Marianne trilled out, "Sir Percy Blakeney, Mademoiselle!"

Sir Percy smiled at her so pleasantly, though, that Marguerite quickly forgot the fact that she had been expecting Armand (foot injury or no, Marguerite was not about to walk around Paris, at night, unescorted, and Armand's valet was off in Provence until next month).

"Sir Percy!" Marguerite exclaimed, holding out her hands to him. "I am very glad to see you. Did you enjoy our play?"

"Oh yes," he replied, still all smiles. "Astonishing stuff, really. The Marquise de Tourzel was just tellin' me that the Jean Calas fellow the play was about was a real person. Astonishing." He took her hands and pressed them, lightly.

"The… Marquise de Tourzel?" Marguerite inquired.

"Yes, she said she wished she could come, but she had to look after the Dauphin," Sir Percy said amiably, apparently not noticing Marguerite's look of utter shock.

"You… invited… the governess of the ci-devant dauphin _here_?" Marguerite croaked out.

"Well, it was only polite," Sir Percy replied, looking minorly confused.

"But _here,_ Sir Percy?"

"Indeed Mademoiselle Saint-Just. Odd's fish, you weren't performin' anywhere else."

"Yes, but this is a _republican_ theatre, Sir Percy," Marguerite explained weakly. "You publically invited a- a royalist to a republican theatre. A very well known royalist. To a republican theatre. A _republican theatre._"

Sir Percy did not appear to understand the enormity of this social gaffe. "And so Mademoiselle? Odd's fish, what's the importance of politics?"

"Surely you don't mean that. I run a political and artistic salon."

"Politics pale in comparision to the arts, m'dear Mademosielle Saint-Just. Odd's fish, how many gods did the Greeks have for politics and how many did they have for art?"

"Euh," Marguerite began, a little startled, "I suppose, for the arts there were the Muses and the Graces… Apollo played… the lyre, I think, and Athena created weaving, but she was also the goddess of Athens, which was a sovereign state unto itself, but I do suppose the balance to be in favor of the arts-"

"Exactly, m'dear! Politics is dreadful stuff, turnin' perfectly nice people against one another."

Marguerite could only reply, "Euh?" before Marianne shoved a pair of gloves and a fan into her hands and Sir Percy, taking the hint, offered Marguerite his arm. Marguerite took it, hiding her bewilderment under a polite smile, and followed him out to the greenroom.

She managed to maintain some semblance of equinamity as Sir Percy introduced her to famous royals and royalists. To Marguerite's inexpressible astonishment, Sir Percy informed her that the Princesse de Lambelle, Marie Antoinette's favorite, had come to see Marguerite and wished to invite her to a small gathering back at the Princesse's lodgings. Marguerite could only stare at Sir Percy and hope that he had simply taken leave of his senses.

"And here she is. Princesse, this is Mademoiselle Marguerite Saint-Just, the pride of the French stage. Mademoiselle Saint-Just, this is the Princesse de Lamballe." Sir Percy smiled at them both, apparently thinking that he had done a very good job of facilitating a sure-to-appear friendship.

Marguerite dipped into a graceful curtsey, managing a smile despite her intense desire to hit Sir Percy with the gloves he had given her, and to subsequently stalk out of the theatre and lock herself in her bedroom. The Princesse de Lamballe nodded in return.

The Princesse de Lamballe was known for her excessive sentimentality, her virtue, her beauty, and her utter stupidity. Marguerite herself saw the veracity of popular rumor when the Princesse flung her arms into the air, cried, "Oh!", and burst into tears.

Sir Percy's smile turned awkward and Marguerite gave him a Look that quite clearly expressed her negative feelings about the entire situation. It wasn't as good a vent as breaking her fan, but it achieved something close to the desired result; he had the good grace to look abashed and very sheepish. It was, oddly enough, a very endearing sort of look.

"Oh!" the Princesse cried again, very unhelpfully.

"Did you enjoy the performance?" Marguerite asked pleasantly.

"Oh!" she cried again, still in tears.

"Oh," Marguerite echoed.

"Antoinette would have loved it!" the Princesse eventually babbled, through her tears. Sir Percy kindly lent her his handkerchief and the Princesse made a big show of wiping her eyes before clenching her hand round it and beating her breast in the acutest of histrionic agony. "Oh, my poor queen! You were always her favorite actress in the theatre. How many times did she turn to me and say 'Therese, how I enjoy Mademoiselle Saint-Just'? Oh, your Rosina! How I wish you had performed Beaumarchais, for Antoinette loved your Rosina above all!"

"I-" Marguerite began, bewildered, thinking that some response was necessary.

"Oh yes! Your Rosina in _The Barber of Seville;_ Her Majesty used to act it out herself and she adopted some of your gestures. I said to her after one performance at Petit Trinon, I said, 'My, how I loved the way you move, and the way you used your hands to gesture. It looked so professional!" and (oh my poor, poor queen, this was right before that horrid necklace affair when she was on trial) she said, 'I am glad you noticed it, I modeled it on Marguerite Saint-Just's interpretation. She is such a fine Rosina!' And oh, your later interpretation of Rosina as the Countess in _The Marriage of Figaro_! Oh, what ecstasies and agonies of sorrow!" At this the Princesse lost all semblance of composure and began sobbing hysterically, earning strange looks from everyone else in the Green Room.

Marguerite could not keep her feelings of appalled astonishment from her face and Sir Percy began to search his pockets for another handkerchief.

"Go get Paul Déroulède," Marguerite muttered, taking the time to pull on her gloves.

Sir Percy did so, but not before noticing Marguerite's actions and smiling- a brief, wonderful flash of a true smile that made Marguerite feel minorly better, even if there was an hysteric Princesse crying at her in the middle of a thoroughly republican crowd at the very pointedly named _Theatre de la Revolution._

Fortunately, Sir Percy moved very easily through crowds and reappeared almost immediately with Paul Déroulède.

"Princesse," Déroulède inquired solicitously, "what has upset you?"

"Oh!" the Princesse cried, which made Marguerite clutch her fan very tightly so that she did not break it over the Princesse's unfashionably powdered head.

"She is upset by memories of the queen," Marguerite informed him shortly.

Déroulède remained kind. "Your feelings do you credit, Princesse. Perhaps you would wish to cry in private?"

"Oh," the Princesse gasped, in what seemed to be an affirmative tone.

"Will you allow me to escort you to your carriage? I am sure Mademoiselle Saint-Just will come to your salon this evening and you may continue your conversation there."

"I should like that," the Princesse exclaimed tremulously, before hiding her face in Sir Percy's handkerchief again.

Marguerite shot Déroulède a look that very clearly said, 'You have gone completely insane'.

Déroulède sighed and nodded. "Come now, Princesse, let us go call your carriage…." He led her off and Marguerite whirled on Sir Percy.

"What could have possibly made you think that this is a good idea, Percy?" she snapped.

"I do beg forgiveness," Sir Percy replied, all humbleness and sheepish regret. "The Princesse has been very emotional since that Varennes business-" ("Pah!" Marguerite exclaimed, trying to keep ahold of her anger) "-but, la, I did not think she'd go around cryin' so."

"Really?" Marguerite asked skeptically, before realizing that Sir Percy was the sort of person who really did believe the absolute best in people. This softened her anger against him somewhat and, regardless, it was difficult to get into a fierce row with someone who apologized at the first sign of temper.

"No," he said, with another sheepish sort of grin. "She always did use to cry at the sight of a nice bouquet of flowers, but I had thought that she was past all that."

Marguerite sighed. "I suppose we have no choice but to go?"

"The Princesse seemed eager to speak more with you," Sir Percy replied. "Shall I fetch your shawl?"

"If you would be so kind."

Marguerite wearily took Sir Percy's arm once he returned. "_Nom de __Dieu_, going from a republican theatre into a salon that is as royalist as it can possibly be. Whatever will cousin Louis say?"

Sir Percy had little to no idea, but asked who cousin Louis was and escorted her to his carriage. To Marguerite's astonishment, Sir Percy drove the carriage himself. He took up the reigns easily in his thin white hands and seemed to have a real enjoyment in doing so. Marguerite liked watching him as she chatted inconsequentially about how her parents had died and they'd gone to live with their aunt and cousin Louis, how Marguerite then went off to the convent for school, how Armand had followed Louis devotedly, how Louis was now Not Very Nice Company yet was still family and thus his presence was oddly necessary in her salons. Sir Percy, Marguerite found, liked listening more than speaking, and smiled at Marguerite's breezy assessment of her cousin.

"What, I amuse you?" Marguerite inquired, feeling much calmer and much less likely to cause someone personal injury.

"You are extraordinarily kind," Sir Percy replied simply.

"Pah," Marguerite said. "Not at all. Merely stubborn. Once I have a hold of someone, they become an audience, and I am always loathe to give up an audience."

"And modest, too," Sir Percy added, in a tone so even Marguerite could not tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

"It is," she said, opting for wit as a matter of course, "a useful virtue to cultivate." Sit Percy seemed amused again so Marguerite sighed histrionically and drolly added, "As I said, I was raised in a convent. It does show up from time to time."

"It's charming," Sir Percy reassured her.

"I am glad you think so," Marguerite replied, amused. "You drive very well."

"I thank you, and here we are." He deftly pulled the horses to a stop and helped her down. If his hands lingered on her waist a moment too long, Marguerite allowed him the liberty. There was something so wonderfully _safe_ about Sir Percy that it was nigh on impossible to ever be vexed or frightened with him.

The Princesse de Lamballe awaited them in the drawing room, where she latched onto Marguerite as soon as a servant had taken Marguerite's light summer shawl, and, with tears in her eyes, the Princesse asked her if she remembered dear Antoinette, back in the Happy Days before Whoever It Was did That Thing to the Bastille.

It was with some effort that Marguerite managed to keep her equanimity. "No, I do not recall every speaking to her."

"Oh, she would have loved it!" cried the Princesse. "You must visit her now! She does so cherish everything that reminds her of happier times!"

"I do not think I am allowed in La Force," Marguerite replied, a little shortly.

At this the Princesse fell on Marguerite's shoulder and wept. Marguerite made a face since no one could see her and then patted the Princesse on the back. "There, there."

"Oh!"

"There, there."

And so continued and concluded the entirety of their conversation for the next ten minutes.

Eventually, Marguerite managed to navigate them towards the couch on the grounds that if she was going to be used as a handkerchief, she might as well sit down. Sir Percy reappeared with, wonderfully helpfully, a gaggle of comtesses and marquises in court attire, who swept off the Princesse to go weep collectively over a potted violet that they had not been able to send to the Queen.

"That's going to kill the violet, isn't it?" asked an Englishman next to Sir Percy.

Sir Percy, in English: "Not appropriate, Andrew."

"I know. It is touching, but I do begin to pity the violet."

Marguerite, attempting to discreetly wring out the shoulder of her dress, smiled at that and turned to face them both. In English she drily added, "If eet receives 'alf the torrent I did, I am afraid that eet will drown."

"Well met, milady," replied the newcomer with some signs of excitement. "You speak English?"

"Not well."

"You speak it a far sight better than I do French." He bowed and smiled. "Sir Andrew Ffolkes, mademoiselle."

Marguerite inclined her head. "Marguerite Saint- Just. A pleasure, sir." She glanced up at Sir Percy and asked, in French, "That was the equivalent term, correct?"

Sir Percy nodded and then looked a little pointedly at Sir Andrew.

Sir Andrew did not seem to understand and gestured at the couch. "Is that seat taken, Mademoiselle?"

"Eet was the Princesse's, but I zink- think, I apologize; my pronunciation- eh-" with a shrug and a nonchalant, dismissive wave "-well, I think that she ees- is, gone now."

Sir Andrew sat immediately which caused Marguerite to disguise a laugh by pretending to cough and brushing at her shoulder again. "I am afraid I 'ave caught a cold since the Princesse used me as her 'andkercheif. I apologize if the seat is wet, but my dress absorbed all that it could."

"It is an admirable seat indeed," Sir Andrew said gallantly, which proved in Marguerite's mind, once again, that there was nothing an Englishman liked more than a pretty woman speaking English with a French accent. It had some inexorable hold on them that amused her greatly.

Sir Percy cleared his throat and Sir Andrew, who really did have a very charming smile, turned to look at him. A bit distractedly: "Oh, this is Sir Percy Blakeney."

Marguerite couldn't keep from a laugh. "I know. 'Ee escorted me here and, euh, rescued- is rescued, yes?- my brozzair from the Champs de Mars."

"Oh," Sir Andrew said. Then, again, in tones of dawning comprehension: "Oh! So this is the actress you keep talking about?"

Sir Percy turned pink. "Er, yes, Andrew. Good job."

"I speak Eenglish too," Marguerite interjected pointedly.

"I do apologize, Mademoiselle, but I have heard a great deal about you- all very kind and flattering I assure you, but Blakeney does have this awful habit of understatement. He did not quite convey your perfections as they are."

"I am sure Sir Percy exaggerated, monsieur, if he began listing my perfections."

"Alas, I do regret to inform you that no one could do justice to half of them if he had to list them. It would take a week, at least."

At this blatant flirtation Marguerite had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. Sir Percy, who had pulled up a chair to sit across from them, did not look amused in the slightest. It was then that Marguerite realized, with a slight shock at her being so stupid to not have recognized it before, that Sir Percy liked her a great deal.

A very great deal.

" 'Ow do you two know each other?" Marguerite inquired, trying to determine just what Sir Percy would do- or possibly not do- because he did seem to like her.

"We grew up together," Sir Percy said, with a return to his usual good-nature. "Ffoulkes and I went to boarding school together and took our grand tour together, too."

"Ah, so you went to Italy and India, as well." Marguerite smiled at Sir Andrew. "That must have been fascinating."

"It was," Sir Andrew replied, still gallantly. "But those countries pale in comparison with France, as they are berift of your presence."

Marguerite had to admit that Sir Andrew was determined. He didn't quite have Sir Percy's easy, gallant, good-natured charm, but he was certainly just as amusing.

An expression of discomfort flitted across Sir Percy's face but it vanished so quickly Marguerite was not quite sure it had been there at all.

"Andrew," Sir Percy said, once more rather pointedly, "we met Mademoiselle Saint- Just at the banquet for the Flanders regiment. Do you recall? In October '89?"

Sir Andrew looked minorly confused. "No. I do beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Saint-Just." Then, a sudden look of understanding came across Sir Andrew's face. "Ah! I knew you were familiar to me. I would not have connected a lady of your refinement-" Marguerite, who was an actress and thus on the shadowy side of respectability, bit her lips to keep from laughing again "-to a night of such vulgarity."

"I thank you for the compliment," Marguerite replied, drily.

"But Blakeney was absolutely entranced by your performance. I remember that distinctly. We all were. I believe that we have a common acquaintance in Paul Déroulède?"

"Yes! He comes to my salon frequently." She kindly extended an invitation to her salon to Sir Andrew and then asked Sir Percy how he'd liked his visit, a discussion which quickly moved to cravat watching, fashion, and general discussions of how to feign an interest when suffering with ennui at a social gathering. Sir Andrew added in a few compliments for the sake of gallantry, but generally dropped the idea of trying to flirt with her. Marguerite was not sure whether to be amused or concerned. Obviously Sir Percy had liked her for quite a _long_ time.

She was used to admirers who liked her, or who liked her characters, but, generally speaking, their infatuation had never lasted longer than a six-month. Dealing with an infatuation that had somehow lasted for two years (could something like that last for two years? Why on earth would it? What could cause something so strange?) might prove more difficult, particularly as Marguerite did genuinely enjoy Sir Percy's company and was loathe to send him away to let time and distance dull her image in his mind. Besides, it hadn't seemed to work the first time.

"Sir Percy!" trilled an aristo, bearing down like a ship in full sail intent on some particular prize. In French: "I see you and Sir Andrew are here and doing well! Angélique, say hello to Sir Percy and Sir Andrew."

Marguerite and the baronets stood and preformed the proper polite obeisances just as the two ladies curtsied.

"A pleasure, as ever," Sir Percy said aimiably, likewise in French. "May I introduce you? This is Marguerite Saint-Just, the most talented actress in Paris. Mademoiselle Saint-Just, this is the Marquise de Saint-Cyr and her eldest daughter, Angélique."

Marguerite's head shot up with a snap. She had never seen the girl Armand had loved so devotedly and whom had him beaten. Angélique wore a very formal court gown of unrelieved white, with white ribbons and lilies in her pale blonde hair. They drained her of what little color she had and she looked like a statue, pure, cold, beautiful, imposing.

How could Armand have ever fallen in love with this girl? She did not appear to ever be easily moved and, upon further inspection, her gown was an exact replica of her mother's (though the marquise was in blue in gold- very monarchist). A monarchist through and through and one of the demure young misses who obeyed their mothers and showed all their love notes to their fathers, with an education meant purely for exhibition not inner edification….

Angélique lifted her head, and her pale gray eyes met Marguerite's own blue-violet ones. Marguerite felt their differences keenly. Marguerite's red-gold hair streamed over her shoulders in curls contained only by her blue bandeau, and with her simple, off-white lawn gown and blue sash, she felt like (and was proud to feel like) a walking tricolor.

"I have heard a great deal about you, Mademoiselle de Saint-Cyr," Marguerite replied, lifting her chin. "All extremely flattering, I assure you." Marguerite smiled easily.

Angélique did not rise to the bait and simply looked at her mother. The Marquise looked pleased.

"Well, that is good to hear, is it not Angélique?" the Marquise asked, turning to her daughter.

"Yes, Mama," replied Angélique, very softly.

The Marquise beamed at Sir Percy, obviously thinking that he had been the one to pour praises of Angélique de Saint-Cyr into Marguerite's listening ear. Sir Percy did not notice at all, his attention focused on trying to signal via quizzing glass to Sir Andrew to take the Saint-Cyrs away without anyone else noticing. Sadly, Sir Andrew did not notice at all and just smiled pleasantly and slightly vacantly.

"Are you good friends with our hostess?" Marguerite inquired, in a bid for conversation.

"Of course!" the Marquise sniffed, apparently insulted that Marguerite had not known so before. "We Saint-Cyrs move in the highest of circles. Of course, you could not be expected to know with your… background, so I will not press you on the matter."

"I wonder then, why you have already done so." Marguerite dropped a curtsey. "If you all will excuse me, I ought to go find Paul Déroulède."

"Oh," the Marquise said. "Of course."

Marguerite turned to go, but not before hearing the Marquise remark, in what she apparently thought was a whisper, "Well, I am glad that she knows her place. Such a pity that the merchant class can buy their own quarterings. But Déroulède was of her class before he bought his title; I dare say that they shall quite get along."

She walked off very quickly, flushing with anger, and paying very little attention to her surroundings whatever. Marguerite managed to grab a glass of champagne off of a tray (champagne? Where on earth did the Princesse get such a luxury when people starved in the streets?) and feign an interest in the fine paintings that adorned the wall until she honestly could express a real happiness to see so many pieces by the famous female portraitess Vigée Le Brun adorning the walls.

Equanimity resorted, she placed the empty glass on a tray and wandered about aimlessly until she heard her name. Marguerite backtracked to peer curiously around a doorway to see who had mentioned her.

"You remember the actress, right Angélique?"

"Yes, Mama," Angélique de Saint-Cyr replied.

The Marquise paced slowly up and down the length of the small sitting room. "Now, Angélique, that actress is probably Sir Percy's mistress. As his wife, it would be your duty to turn a blind eye to it."

"Yes, Mama."

Marguerite stood stock still in the doorway, trembling with rage. She? Someone's mistress? Granted, she was an actress, placing her (until recently) outside of the church, unallowed to take communion, make confession, or marry, and most actresses had to find wealthy patrons whom they favored with "private readings" in order to get by, but that did not necessarily mean that she _had_ to be someone's mistress. Marguerite had built her appeal on having been no one's mistress. She had a contract to play the ingénue roles, after all, and there was a certain appeal in a flirtatious woman who had never been in love, an allure in being untouched, a certain dignity in acting morally that she felt gave her a sort of regal edge to her manner.

"Well, at least we know that he's discreet. Had no idea of it until I saw him looking at the actress; not even the slightest hint of rumor, which is very admirable, you know. She seems discreet as well; I do not believe that I have heard of her as anyone's mistress before. Now, he may wish to bring her places, but you must not mind that. You will wear the ring my dear."

Even quieter: "Yes, Mama."

"It will be a good thing, you see? You can stay in France because his mistress works on the stage and probably has a contract to do so for a few years, and he will not bother you at night. I don't think that you will have to worry particularly about any other children to rival your own. Sir Percy is responsible and that Saint-Just woman is pretty and probably would not wish to ruin her figure."

Marguerite balled her fists up so tightly that her nails cut into her palms, her knuckles jutting out so sharply they might break the skin.

"Mama, I do not-" Angélique started before sniffling forlornly.

"What, child? Not marry Sir Percy? You picked him out particularly last week."

"Yes, Mama," Angélique whispered pathetically, "but I-"

"Oh, is it the mistress? Come now, he may give her up eventually. Not soon, you know, for he seems too infatuated for that, but he's an honorable man. Come now, all men have mistresses. As a wife, it is your job to smile and spend the money."

This was too much.

"Hello," Marguerite said pleasantly, her expression agreeable, her manner calm, as she glided into the room. "I was just passing by. This is a pleasant room, is it not?"

Angélique, curled up in an armchair and dwarfed by the huge pastoral painting behind her, avoided her eyes and the Marquise flushed, her expression set.

"Ah," the Marquise said. "This is as good a time as any. I do hate to bring it up, but it really must be done. Angélique is such a spineless creature I must do it for her." Her daughter flinched at the words. "Now, Mademoiselle Saint-Just. We know. There really is no use in pretending and we are prepared to live with it as long as you remember your place."

"My place?" Marguerite inquired, in a falsely friendly manner with just an edge of danger.

"Oh yes. Your place as Sir Percy's mistress. No children, mind you, and please do not _try _to be in Sir Percy's society when Angélique is present."

"Excuse me, but what right do you have to say this to me?"

"As the future mother-in-law-"

"Future mother-in-law?" Marguerite repeated incredulously. "Madame, you really do go too far. _If _Sir Percy was engaged to your daughter, which he certainly is not-" he was unattached to anyone but Marguerite herself; Louise, who was by nature suspicious, had befriended Sir Percy's housekeeper and made sure that Sir Percy was not married/engaged/attached/near death/mentally unstable, and Sir Percy's manner towards everyone belied both an exceptional good nature and a tenderness towards _her_, Marguerite, alone "-then certainly he would have said something by know. I have known him for two years." A bit of a fib, but it was basically true. "Besides, Sir Percy has never once made any sort of improper overtures to myself and your insinuations disgrace both him and yourself."

Angélique burst into miserable tears and curled in on herself until she couldn't be heard.

"How dare you speak this way to a peer! Learn your place, girl! It is not for you to understand the workings of your betters, and how dare you say such things to me- I, who have lived at Versailles for thirty years, with two daughters countesses and a son a count, how dare you say I do not understand such matters?"

"I dare because, unlike you, apparently, Madame, I have no fear of the truth."

"Oh, Mademoiselle Saint-Just!" cried the Princesse de Lamballe, coming into the room and stopping short at Marguerite's tight, taught expression and the way the Marquise tilted up her chin and stared very pointedly at a spot just above Marguerite's head.

"No, no," the Princesse scolded gently, much like a kitten biting someone. "I will not have unpleasantness in my home."

"Then you should not invite actresses," the Marquise sniffed. "Women of their ilk-"

"Now don't you say that," the Princesse demanded, a flush coming across her pale, pretty face. "Antoinette acted herself and _I _was in her plays. What does that make the queen, if actresses are- are- are women of a _certain ilk-_" it was rather apparent that the Princess had no idea what the word 'ilk' meant "-and what does that make me? Come now, you must not say anything against Mademoiselle Saint-Just. She was one of Antoinette's favorites. She patronized the _Comedie-Francaise_just to see her, and the queen has the best taste of anyone I have ever met!"

Her blind loyalty to Marie Antoinette was both startling and touching. Marguerite did not know what to make of this unexpected and strangely founded favor and kindness.

"You will apologize to Mademoiselle Saint-Just at once," the Princesse continued on, in a faintly scolding tone. "You have insulted her, have you not? I do not wish for unpleasantness in my home and you have brought it in, so you must take it out."

The Marquise stood very still and then dipped into a slow, creaky curtsy.

"Lower," said the Princesse.

There really was nothing that the Marquise could do but go lower. The Princesse had the advantage of her; the Princesse was both her hostess and a noblewoman of a much higher rank.

"Now," the Princesse inquired, "what did you say to Mademoiselle Saint-Just? You must apologize for it."

The Marquise stood up at this. "Princesse, I do protest! I spoke only fact-"

"I am not," Marguerite said very coldly, "any man's whore, nor am I ever likely to be. I thank you to keep such thoughts in your own poisoned busom."

"But you are the mistress of-"

"And if she is, she is no less of my guest and no less one of Antoinette's favorites," the Princesse interjected. "And I really do hate how you keep calling all my guests the mistress of someone or other. The last time poor Count Fersen was here…."

The Marquise looked as if she had been slapped. "I meant no disrespect on any member of your salon, Princesse."

"Yes, well, Count Fersen is very touchy on the subject of mistresses-" popular rumor had it that Count Fersen had had a torrid affair with the Queen "-and you oughtn't to bring it up again. He probably will not come back to my salon since he overheard you."

"I did not think that anyone heard me speak what was meant to be a private word of advice to my own daughter," the Marquise replied, bewildered, hurt, shocked, nearly apologetic.

"Well they did and that made everything dreadfully unpleasant. If the good Madame de Pompadeur could have heard you!" Madame de Pompadeur had been the official mistress of Louis XV and had somehow been very highly respected at Versailles.

"I did not think," the Marquise began.

"Oh, I do that all the time too and it is not a nice thing to do in society. You always ought to apologize for it."

The Marquise curtsied. "I apologize, Princesse."

"Oh no, not to me, to Mademoiselle Saint-Just."

The Marquise froze. "To a… commoner, Princesse? To an actress?"

"To one of Antoinette's favorites," the Princesse informed her, as if that settled the matter.

The Marquise bobbed her head and muttered something before holding out a hand to Angélique.

"See? Was that so hard?" the Princesse asked.

The Marquise said nothing and walked off, dragging along her daughter.

"Come. I have some ladies who wish to meet you!" The Princesse, arm in arm with Marguerite, walked into the main room. Marguerite felt quite triumphant in her tricolor glory, standing in the midst of some of the most famous-infamous, too- members of the nobility in France. Some looked at her curiously, others frostily, others with admiration and it was unclear just how many people were like the Princesse or Sir Percy, so potentially dangerously out of touch with politics, who did not take political considerations into account when thinking of people, or how many were like Marguerite, who saw people's politics as part of them, or like cousin Louis, who saw only politics.

It was strange, Marguerite thought, smiling as some dowager baroness once more discussed how much Marie Antoinette's interpretation of Rosina relied on Marguerite's, to stand there, the sole republican in the room, with her Jacobin leanings and her strange ideas on total equality in the midst of so many people who believed that they had been picked out at birth to be better than their neighbor. Marguerite had made herself, through hard work and charm and a good smattering of talent. She was an actress, whom had become famous for what she had done, what roles she had played, not famous, like most of the other occupants of the room, merely by having two titled, wealthy parents.

She did not quite belong in this society; she knew it even as she found it irritating and tried to forget it. Marguerite could make herself appear to be, could eventually convince people that they were, in fact, people, with names other than their long strings of titles, but this was a world that she did not like.

There was too much superficiality, too much reliance on the merits of a family rather than the merits of a person. Those individuals in the nobility who burned brighter, who sailed off to unexplored places were regarded with some hostility. There was poor, awkward, military Lafayette, for example, a hero of the American Revolution, a previous president of the Assembly, and one of the most celebrated Frenchmen still living. The marquis had been the object of ridicule for some time, for his leftist leanings and his somewhat gauche manner, but now? Now he was a non-entity. They called him by his first name, "Giles" in passing, as an insult; he was no longer regarded as part of society and did not merit his title of "Lafayette". He was not invited to these sorts of salons because he had not learned well enough how to play the game, how to practice the little hypocrisies (so magnified in England) that made life so easy at Versailles.

Marguerite felt a pang of pity for Lafayette. The people had turned against him too, for being in charge of the National Guard when the king and queen had escaped. Everyone always did look for some _one_to blame; an individual who was the cause of their misery. And that, Marguerite thought, was why the nobility fell back on old names and titles, for there had been dozens of Marquises de Saint-Cyr before the current one, and there would be dozens after she died. Individuality so often led to trouble- to fame yes, but to infamy as well.

As she enjoyed the aspects of her fame, Marguerite soon discovered the aspects of her infamy as well.

The Marquise de Saint-Cyr, tired of being ignored by the society she felt that, by right, ought to swarm around her, swept over to her husband and said in a low voice that carried, "I have never been so insulted in my life." She looked close to tears and Marguerite almost, almost felt sorry for her.

"What?"

"Apparently I have been overheard giving advice to Angélique. Honestly, she is such a sad shiftless creature I must tell her these things, since she cannot pick up on them herself, but-"

"Come." The two walked away and Marguerite took the opportunity of a duchess sobbing over Marie Antoinette's imprisonment to pat her on the back and thus be free to glare at the Saint-Cyrs as they walked away. What were they planning?

She found out quickly enough. As soon as the circle of crying woman dissolved away, the marquis came up to her. Marguerite looked in vain for someone that she knew in the crowd, but, seeing no one, was forced to look up at the marquis.

He did not bow and she did not curtsey.

"I have heard," he said abruptly, "that you have insulted my wife."

"I believe," she replied, "my good monsieur, that you have thus been misinformed. I received both insults and apology and I will not say more out of respect for the wishes of the hostess for peace.

"Insolence!"

Marguerite dropped a saucy curtsy. "If that is all you have the wit to say, I believe I will excuse myself."

"You will do no such thing. I will not tolerate this sort of behavior to myself or to my wife."

"Ah! There we are in agreement; I will not tolerate such behavior towards myself either."

The marquis fumed silently. He was an older man, closer to fifty than forty and was not used to such answers. He was the lord and master over everything he saw. His word was absolute. It was law. If a servant displeased him, there was no saying whether the servant would be alive the next day. He exercised an incredible, untarnished power over everything he owned or knew and this- this!

"You will not speak to me so!"

"Times are changing, Monsieur. I will, as will many, many others."

His expression darkened considerably, his lined face developing more wrinkles by bearing the weight of his scowl. "They have not changed so much as to excuse lapses of common decency and polite behavior."

"Ah! Then we have nothing to argue over and I will bid you good day."

"Not until you apologize to my wife."

"Then I must bid you a bad day and be done with you."

"I know you and I know your brother," the Marquis growled. "You both are noting better than slimy guttersnipes who have oozed your way into society. You have no right to speak like you do, you have no right to be where you are. Who were your parents?"

"How dare-" Marguerite hissed, in a low, dangerous voice.

"I dare because the blood of Charlemagne runs through my veins and you- your mother probably did not even know who your father was."

"If you insult me again-"

"You will do what?" the Marquis snarled. "Learn your place, girl! How dare you speak in such a tone to your betters?"

Marguerite let out a harsh, grating laugh. "My betters? Oh my _good_ monsieur, if you had been my better in any way, I would have acknowledged it, but you are a small, narrow man and you will drown in the flood of the revolution."

"Insolent-" the marquis snarled, raising a hand to slap her.

"Oh, yes, strike a lady! That is the true mark of nobility!" Marguerite, who spoke with her hands, made sure to raise her fan to her face, though, in an angry sort of gesture, just in case the marquis did try to hit her.

Instead, the marquis spit at her and Marguerite was only just quick enough to open her fan become being splattered by it. She snapped the fan shut, seething with rage, her face white, her hands trembling, her lips twisting together with the sheer effort of keeping herself from striking back-

"Is something the matter?" Sir Percy asked, walking over.

"Not at all," the marquis answered, as Marguerite whirled around to leave. She nearly tripped, kept from the floor only by Sir Percy's quick reflexes and strong arm. Marguerite glared behind her to see the marquis very pettishly standing on the train of her gown.

"How very immature of you," Marguerite snapped. "Really, have all the creative punishments been taken?"

Though she had always considered Sir Percy to be rather stupid, he caught on quickly enough. He helped her to stand and then said, with just the right touch of hostility in his friendly drawl, "That was really very ungallant of you, m'dear marquis."

Because Sir Percy was so generally inclined and so apt at making himself agreeable to everyone, it was easy to forget that he was six-foot odd, broad-shouldered, and heavily muscled from his favored pursuits of riding, hunting, fencing, and boxing.

It was quite a sight to see when he suddenly reminded everyone around him that he was a. very, very tall and b. very, very strong.

Marguerite now saw Sir Percy do so as he physically lifted the Marquis de Saint-Cyr up off of her gown and then, still smiling very pleasantly, fix the marquis's collar in a manner that the marquis very obviously found to be incredibly terrifying. Sir Percy suddenly seemed much more physically imposing than anyone else Marguerite had ever met.

"I think your cravat may be a bit too tight, m'dear sir," Sir Percy drawled. "Demmed French fashion. Really cannot follow it anymore. The tailors have all gone mad, I think. All this political excitement in the air, drivin' them to force people to wear such ugly, tight collars…."

The marquis appeared to be internally at war. On the one hand, Sir Percy was only a baronet, and a British one at that, and the marquis outranked him; on the other, Sir Percy was one of those stupidly strong sort of men with a very firm grip and his hands were very uncomfortably close to the marquis's neck.

Marguerite raised her eyebrows at the Marquis over Sir Percy's shoulder, her arms crossed and her fan dangling nonchalantly from her slender, gloved fingers.

"Leave it," the marquis snapped, pulling back and nearly choking himself with his cravat.

"Oh, demmed sorry. Never know my own strength." Sir Percy dropped his hold on the cravat.

"Sir Percy," the marquis began, with as much dignity as he could muster with his cravat outrageously askew and his voice slightly hoarse from what appeared to be a very close call to strangulation. "I consider you a friend and thus I will tell you that in France, men do not degrade themselves."

"Really?" Sir Percy inquired, all good-natured friendliness. "Do tell."

"I mean no insult or any rudeness, but it is not done to consort with actresses. One must have standards. And the woman behind you, sir, is-"

"Quite a lovely woman?" Sir Percy finished, pulling himself up to his full height. "Why yes, indeed. I thank you, m'dear marquis. I am hopelessly stupid and all, but I do have eyes."

And muscles, Marguerite noted, sweeping her gaze over the way Sir Percy filled out his well-cut coat. Lots and lots of muscles.

"I spoke as a friend," the marquis said stiffly. "Pardon my interference; it was kindly meant." He bowed to Sir Percy and then walked past Marguerite, stopping just behind her shoulder as he straightened his cravat. In a low hiss only she could hear, he threatened, "Someday you will not have one of your… _admirers_ close at hand, girl. Remember what I did to the last Saint- Just who did not remember their place."

With that he swept off, Marguerite's expression frozen, her fan still dangling from her fingers.

"Are you quite alright?" Sir Percy asked.

Marguerite forced a smile. "I will be. Talk to me about something."

"What?" he inquired, startled.

"Something you can talk about for a very long time. Do you read?"

"Not often. As a child, voraciously."

That was surprising. "Really? What did you read?"

"Stories about King Arthur and his knights, more or less," Sir Percy answered, with a shy sort of smile. "I liked the Grail Knights best."

"I used to love those. Sir Gawain, the lady's knight, was my favorite. Which one did you like best?"

"Ever since I became a Sir Percy myself, I found that I could never say 'Sir Percy' or 'Sir Percival' while keeping a straight face. Galahad I could only vaguely understand, so I suppose… King Arthur."

"Intriguing selection."

"He understood his duties and followed through with them. Demmed heroic fellow. Always felt so sorry for him when his lady love falls for Lancelot du Lac."

Marguerite thus listened while Sir Percy, unused to speaking so much at once, somewhat awkwardly discussed King Arthur and his knights and why, in particular he had liked the quest for the Holy Grail the best. It was easy to listen to Sir Percy, who was witty and funny enough to distract her, though not so stimulating as to require her to come up with a coherent or particularly cognizant response.

She was deeply uneasy and she felt incredibly wound up. There was a shifting sort of terror at the pit of her stomach. Armand- oh Armand at home with his injured foot and the scars on his back from the beating- and her here, almost terrified to be out of sight of Sir Percy.

No, this was stupid.

She would not let some petty little man make her afraid, shackle her, limit her freedoms. What could he do to her that would not cause widespread outrage, or could be prevented with even the smallest degree of caution?

After Sir Percy had quite exhausted his store of discussion, Marguerite felt herself to be very much more at ease. She was still very tightly wound; Saint-Cyr made her feel completely on edge, completely unsafe, and she was still absolutely furious over his insults to herself and his treatment of her beloved brother. His threats were, quite frankly, terrifying, though she was not determined to be afraid of them.

But she could deal with them, just as she had always dealt with problems and come out on top. She excused herself from Sir Percy on the grounds that she was thirsty, and, grabbing a glass of champagne off of a tray, enclosed herself in a window seat to give herself a minute to think of how to deal with the situation.

She did not have much time to sit in private. She heard men's voices and pressed herself against the glass.

"-incredibly foolish to have done this _now_."

"When else can we talk?"

"But flaunting _these_ in public? Throw them into the fire."

"Read them first."

Curiosity sufficiently piqued, Marguerite scooted forward soundlessly and peered through the curtain. She recognized the back of the Marquis de Saint- Cyr, who stood facing the fire-place.

"Fine," the marquis said. "Tell them they have our support."

"Is that all? Austria will want-"

"Ssssh! Quiet, man!"

"Sorry, Monsieur, but-"

The marquis tossed the papers into the fireplace and then turned on his heel and walked off. "Light a fire. I have to go deal with that upstart actress."

"What? How?"

"Women are all the same. There's nothing a shell-like ear loves more than the clink of one coin against another. Lure her in and…." He pounded his first into his hand. "I will not take such insolence."

The other man lit the fire before running after the Marquis.

Marguerite peered out from behind the curtain and, as soon as she saw that they were gone, darted over to the fireplace. Without much thought, she grabbed as many papers as she could that were not in flames, in the hopes of finding something useful among their contents. She blew on the papers and ruined her gloves trying to pat down the embers.

Half-burned maps, ah ha- correspondence! Most of it had been consumed by flame already, but one of the notes was still mostly intact. The important part- the last paragraph, summarizing a plan of attack and Saint-Cyr's signature- was there, at least, sitting in the palm of her hand. There was, at the bottom, as well, a melted wax blob and the signature of the Duke of Brunswick. Presumably it meant that the Duke had authorized it?

She tucked the paper into the top of her dress after shaking off the ash.

War with Austria was the last thing that they needed. That they could speak so calmly of betraying their own country, of sending hundreds of innocent people to their deaths made Marguerite sick with horror.

Pasting on a falsely friendly smile, she walked out of the room, her hands clasped together behind her back, her heart beating against the papers in her bodice.

"Mademoiselle Saint Just?"

Marguerite whirled around, suddenly terrified.

"Are you alright?" Sir Percy asked, stepping forward immediately.

"I am tired."

"May I be of assistance?"

"Take me home?"

"But of course." He smiled at her quickly, a bright, reassuring sort of smile that made her feel less disgusted with the world and offered her his arm. "Would you like me to carry you, mademoiselle?"

The offer was a tempting one. To completely abandon the need to stand, to support herself, to be alone….

"No, I can manage the stairs. Would you be so kind as to make our excuses and to fetch my shawl?" Sir Percy nodded and left, leaving Marguerite, now drooping with fear and exhaustion, to find her way down the stairs and to fix herself up as best she could. It was irritatingly difficult to get rid of signs of tears.

"Are you quite sure that you are alright?" Sir Percy asked, appearing behind her at the feet of the stairs and draping her shawl around her.

"Truthfully, I am horrible," Marguerite said, glad that she hadn't let herself cry and ruin her complexion with signs of tears.

"Why? Are you ill? I am sorry to have taken you out-"

"A headache, a trifling matter," Marguerite interrupted. "Really, I will be better once I am home."

"Of course."

Sir Percy was all kindness and solicitude and Marguerite's heart ached from his sincerity and from her appreciation. Sir Percy drove slower this time and Marguerite, exhausted, leaned against his shoulder, her hair spilling down his back. She felt terrified and safe and so very tired as they drove on under the Parisian sky, her heart beating wildly against the burnt scraps of paper bringing news of war.


	4. In Which Marguerite Visits Robespierre

Marguerite did not sleep that night, partly because of the note, partly because Sir Percy had come very close to kissing her goodnight and Marguerite actually thought that she would have liked it if he had. As a result, that morning she and Louise quarreled.

Louise, at least, had a good excuse. It was three years to the day when she should have been celebrating her wedding anniversary.

"Dieu, don't _pull_ like that!" Marguerite snapped, tugging her head away from her maid and unraveling a curl paper herself.

Louise pressed her lips together. "Mademoiselle, if you would just _sit still_ for five minutes together!"

"Pah, I am perfectly still!" Marguerite protested, pulling out the papers so that her hair fell in perfect ringlets down her back. "I never have this sort of problem with _Marianne_, my _dresser_."

Louise sniffed. She was eminently practical and Did Not Approve of Marianne Or Marianne's Sensibilities. Highly offended, she stalked over to Marguerite's bedside table and began to organize hair ribbons as loudly as she possibly could- which was actually surprisingly loud considering that she had _ribbons_ to work with.

"Mademoiselle, what is this?" Louise demanded, holding up a scrap of paper.

"I found it last night," Marguerite replied, twisting together three ribbons to make herself a tricolor bandeau. "At the salon Sir Percy took me to. What is it to you?"

"What are you going to do with it?"

"I haven't decided," Marguerite said, a little bit churlishly. "I need help with the buttons in the back."

Louise stalked over to button Marguerite into her white linen gown. "You need to do something, Mademoiselle. I refuse to let this country have the fear we did in '89. Luc died because of the fear of foreign troops and the stupidity about bread." Luc, Louise's former fiancé, had been a baker and, shortly before the Bastille fell, when everyone was wild with terror at the mercenary troops the king had brought into France and desperate from the lack of bread, he had made the mistake of having a brother in the countryside who sold him wheat. Motivated by a poverty so intense that Marguerite still had difficulty understanding it, the people of Paris had rioted, broken into bakeries, and lynched Luc. "I don't care what you do, but do something. After- no other girl ought to lose her sweetheart because of something that could have been prevented." Louise pulled out a tricolor sash from the clothespress and tied it tightly around Marguerite's waist.

"It's not like I would lose Sir Percy over something like this," Marguerite muttered, without paying any real attention to what she was saying. "Ow. You have made your point." She took the paper from Louise and tucked it in her bodice, under her fichu. "_Dieu_! If you would be so kind as to fix my sash so that I can _breathe_ again, I will do something."

"Good," said Louise, in a very shaky voice.

In one of those impetuous decisions of hers which later changed the course of her life, Marguerite chose to go to Citoyen Robespierre. She had visited the Duplay residence only once before, to invite Robespierre to her salon and liked it as much upon her second visit as she did on her first.

The Duplay residence was a wonderful, simple house that Marguerite had loved as soon as she saw it. The smell of sawdust carried on the breeze that made her unbound hair flutter around her shoulders. The gateway opened into a wide, pleasant courtyard, with the cobblestones pink in the light of the sunrise. The sight of it calmed Marguerite immeasurably and soothed her temper.

No one appeared to be up just yet, though Marguerite could see movement at one of the windows, where the white curtains billowed out into the cloudless sky.

"Can I help you?"

Marguerite shifted her gaze downward, to meet the eyes of a pretty girl with dark hair flowing over her shoulders, much like Marguerite's. She did not appear to be much older, and had dressed very simply in a green gown and flowing white fichu that reminded Marguerite of the window curtains.

"Might I speak to Citoyen Robespierre?" Marguerite asked.

"It is very early," the girl replied cautiously.

"I trust Robespierre's habits have not changed?" Marguerite inquired, as pleasant and smiling and harmless as ever. "He is up with the sun."

She had passed some unknown sort of test. The girl gave a small nod and took a step back. It was almost an invitation to continue on. "Whom shall I say is calling?"

"Marguerite Saint-Just."

"The actress?"

"Indeed." Marguerite smiled still. Dieu, how hard it was to gain trust these days!

"I am Eleonore Duplay," the girl announced abruptly. "Maurice Duplay is my father."

"A pleasure," Marguerite said, dropping a curtsey. "I do beg your forgiveness, but it really is urgent that I speak with citoyen Robespierre."

Eleonore looked at her askance and Marguerite let her shawl slip enough to reveal more of the tricolor around her waist.

"It really is important, Citoyenne Duplay. Otherwise I would not dream of imposing on your family in such a manner. I know Citoyen Robespierre to be up and I know him to be trustworthy so I would like to speak with him, if you have no objections?" She was letting her temper get the better of her. Calm, calm, calm….

Eleonore turned around. "This way, then, citoyenne." She took Marguerite through the kitchen, where the maids appeared to be making coffee, and up a set of constricted stairs. Eleonore, though a pretty girl, faded in entirely with her surroundings. She was as much a part of the house as anything else, with a sternness and a harshness to her, like unvarnished wood, that Marguerite found minorly bewildering. It was an almost unforgiving purity, much akin to the almost stringent incorruptablity Robespierre emanated. Marguerite could understand why Robespierre felt at home here, though she wondered if the Duplays let him keep his pet doves.

Robespierre's room was a small one at the end of a long narrow passage that made Marguerite feel vaguely claustrophobic. There was such a relief in reaching the low ceilinged bedroom Robespierre called home.

"Citoyenne Saint- Just here to see you, citoyen," Eléonore called, knocking on the door.

Robespierre calmly opened the door, letting out the hair-dresser, who squeezed past them, and letting the two women in.

"This is an unexpected pleasure, citoyennes," he said gravely, sitting on the small bed and offering them the two chairs in the room. The room was small and very sparsely furnished. He held a copy of Rousseau's _Social Contract_ and had left his green-tinted glasses on the small table next to his bed, though he was still very properly and meticulously dressed. Marguerite was suddenly struck with the thought that though Sir Percy might not be able to follow Robespierre's ideas on the Supreme Being and _vertu_, he and Robespierre would still get along admirably indeed. They both had a sort of fascinating idealism and propriety about them that fascinated and drew in those around them. "Elisabeth was kind enough to bring me a tray of coffee for breakfast. May I offer you some?"

"I thank you, no," Marguerite replied, as Eléonore murmured something about having already eaten. "Are you feeling better, citoyen?"

"Yes," Robespierre replied, his expression brightening. "All one really needs is to relook at one's beliefs-" lifting _The Social Contract_ "-to feel invigorated once more. Disaster threatens, but it serves only to force us into a choice that we ought to have made long before."

Marguerite twisted her gloved hands in her lap. "It is on that matter that I wish to speak to you." She glanced at Eléonore.

Robespierre caught her look and, putting on his glasses, said, "Eléonore, would you be so kind as to see if my sister is here yet? Charlotte _will_ insist on my moving."

"Oh you must not move!" Eléonore exclaimed. "We love having you here, citoyen, and you are still ill."

She looked curiously at Marguerite, to which Robespierre replied, "I very much like it here, Eléonore, as does Brount. Brount needs to be taken for his morning walk, as a matter of fact. Citoyenne Saint-Just, will you accompany me?"

"With pleasure," Marguerite said, and the three of them made their way out of the claustrophobic hall and down the stairs into the courtyard. Robespierre whistled and a humongous dog bounded over, its tail waving as proudly as any tricolor.

"Brount!" Robespierre exclaimed, with some delight. "Look, I just taught him this. Brount, leash." The dog put its paws up on the side of the house and very carefully removed a leash from a hook with its teeth.

"Good boy Brount!" Robespierre tucked _The Social Contract_ into his pocket and, after scratching the dog behind the ears, attached the leash to Brount's collar.

"Very impressive," Marguerite replied.

Eléonore smiled. "That would have made a lovely picture. I draw," she added, a little self consciously. "I take lessons from David."

"David is a wonderful man. My costar, Talma, thinks the world of him." At the overture of friendship, Eléonore smiled and dipped into a curtsy before she walked into the house.

Robespierre and Marguerite left by the gate. Robespierre, who was such a small man, for all his grand, sweeping ideas and the inexorable hold he cast over anyone who heard him speak, looked to be about the same size as his dog, who pulled him eagerly down the street. With his arm outstretched as far as it could go, Robespierre hung onto the leash and tried to walk with a modicum of dignity as the people around them gawped at the sight of the well-known delegate walking an enormous dog and the celebrated actress Marguerite Saint-Just.

"Citoyen," Marguerite said, suddenly realizing that they were alone and out of doors. "Why is it that you do not have guards? All the other leaders of the left are in hiding-"

"Why," he asked, "should I hide from the people? Besides, there is Brount." The dog's tail wagged at the sound of his name. "If they wish to kill me then I will die a martyr to the republic, and that will only hurt them. I want the people to know that I am one of them, that I will speak to them, that I must walk my dog just as they do. It is the belief that one person, for being well-known, is somehow superior to others that sets up a corrupting power. I am an ordinary man, an ill man, a man who may die, but I will strain against those limitations for the people, because I am one of them; I have no guards but a dog and at any moment, I may die, just as, at any moment, they may die too." Simply: "I must ground myself in the ordinary, the universal and the inalienable. If I do not, I fear what may happen. Look at Danton. I respect him, but I will not be like him."

Danton was a statesman who rallied the people like no other ever had or ever could. He was huge and ugly and oddly charming. He prided himself on being a man of the people and accepted bribes as a matter of course. There was a strange dichotomy between Robespierre and Danton; Robespierre, thin, pale, and slight, with the disposition of equally a martyr and a president, the Incorruptable who did not even like to accept gifts, and Danton, heavy, scarred, and huge, with an incessant joie de vivre, a presence that filled rooms and turned every incident into a triumph or a tragedy that swept away all else, and a remarkable ability to take bribes from everyone without actually following through on the promises others had bought from him.

It said something that when Danton fled to England, Robespierre still walked the streets in public, completely unarmed except for a _dog._ As Marguerite tried to keep up as elegantly as she could, Robespierre, roughly pulled forward by Brount-the-determined-squirrel-chaser, would occasionally stop and talk to people whom he looked genuinely interested to talk to. Marguerite felt a great sense of peace. This, she was sure, was obviously the right thing to do. Robespierre was kind, a devotee of Rousseau, just like her, whom violently opposed capital punishment, argued tenaciously for equal rights under a new republic, who had once told her that he kept doves as a boy and cried when his sisters let one of them die.

Eventually, Brount had to stop and commune with nature and the crowd that always flocked to Robespierre dispersed.

"I am sorry," Robespeirre said gravely. "I am absent-minded. Did you have any particular wish to speak to me in private?"

"I did," Marguerite replied, sitting down on a bench. They had managed to walk to one of the numerous parks that dotted the Parisian landscape. It was full of summer roses and fragrant sprays of flowers, the grass a green that seemed unreal and the leaves on the trees making dappled shadows on the gravel walkways.

"On what subject?"

Marguerite watched Brount, now finished, attempt to bound off, restrained only from the sheer force of Robespierre's will. "I- I attended a salon last night."

"Madame Roland's?" Robespierre asked. "I have been feeling too ill to go lately. I do miss her company."

"No." A pause. "The Princesse de Lamballe's."

The leash slid out of Robespierre's small hand and Brount bounded down the avenue.

"Yes," Marguerite told the retreating figure of the dog. "Hard to believe it, eh? I, a noted republican, one of the most outspoken of them in the realm of the theatre, at a monarchist salon. To explain, Sir Percy took me."

"He seemed… pleasant," Robespierre replied carefully, "though not particularly politically involved."

"No, he generally does not pay attention to such things, which is why he saw no great harm in taking me there." Marguerite blew out a stream of air in exasperation. "I suppose I ought to be grateful. It was one of the most miserable experiences of my life, but I think- I think that some good may come out of it."

"Really?" Robespierre asked skeptically.

"Yes. You see, I overheard some members of the salon as they plotted to turn us over to the mercy of Austria. Their plans are highly developed, I am sorry to say."

Robespierre's sea-green eyes widened behind his glasses and he stood numb with shock. "We had thought that something like this had happened but to know of it in actuality…." He trailed off, his expression thoughtful and terrified and anxious. He slid a hand into his pocket and tapped his copy of _The Social Contract _absently mindedly. They passed several minutes in silence (this was habitual for Robespierre; he lived often within his own thoughts and never noticed when his focus shifted so inward that the rest of the world ceased to exist).

"The marquis de Saint- Cyr," Robespierre repeated, testing the name. "I had not… no, that is not quite right. We had no reason to suspect him more than anyone else, but…." He looked up sharply, his expression determined, set, dedicated. "Please tell me everything, citoyenne. We must work quickly."

"I found this." She pulled at the top of her dress and, averting her eyes (she was quite sure Robespierre suddenly found the ground to be immeasurably fascinating), she stuck a hand inside her stays to pull out the scrap of paper. Marguerite was in the habit of keeping any important papers she had to carry with her in her stays because if she ever was searched or mugged, he contents of her stays were one area that she could yell about and refuse to bare to the general public with impunity.

Marguerite handed over the paper. "It was half- burned when I got it. It was lucky that I saved this much."

Robespierre studied the paper and then looked up at her sharply. He whistled for Brount. The dog came bounding back. "Are you rested? We must leave at once."

"Yes, of course," Marguerite said, standing immediately.

Robespierre picked up Brount's leash and began walking down the avenue so quickly that Brount had trouble keeping apace. "Danton is in England, Lafayette not to be trusted, Beauharnais inspecting the troops- Couthon, where is Couthon? I must find him-" He broke off. "Do you remember everything that you saw and heard?"

"Yes; I wrote it down as soon as I got home to keep it fresh and to try and make some sense of it. You need not worry about my memory." She tapped her forehead. "I am an actress. Sometimes they give me three days to memorize an entire part- lines and blocking- and I have never made a mistake yet."

Robespierre managed a weak smile. "Thank you citoyenne. We will need your testimony at the trial."

A public trial? That was complete social humiliation. Marguerite felt pettishly satisfied before realizing how immoral it was to celebrate at another man's defeat. She shook her head. In any case, it was more important that she had done her best to prevent a war which would help neither side. Her own personal feelings ought to play no part in it.

"I will do my duty to my country." She held her skirt out of the way in order to keep pace with Robespierre. "What will you do now?"

"Give the conspirators a fair trial under the law," Robespierre answered. "I will stop them from conspiring against our nation, stop this war, and put them in prison, where they cannot write to the Austrian government." He looked at the paper again. "War is the very last thing we need. France has been so ruined by the absolute monarchy… there is never enough bread in the countryside, everyone is still so afraid, and those who have gone mad from the repression of centuries will wish to strike back. That needs to be channeled. But first, everyone must be safe."

Very methodically, Robespierre folded up the scrap of paper and tucked it into a snuffbox with a picture of the countryside on the lid. Marguerite wondered if it was a picture of Arras, where Robespierre had lived and worked as a country barrister before coming to Paris.

Marguerite felt a vague stirring of unease, remembering Angelique curled up by the huge pastoral landscape, huddled in on herself, trying to make herself disappear, so pale she might already be dead.

"And the family?"

"Likewise incarcerated and brought to trial, but, of course, we will not visit the sins of the father on the family. We must rid ourselves of such medieval thinking."

"Thank you," Marguerite said, holding out her hands to him. Robespierre generally disliked personal contact, but he took her hands in his and squeezed them lightly.

"I hate the Marquis de Saint-Cyr with a passion, but his children are blameless."

"As all children are," Robespierre said, frowning slightly. "And that is something else to work on, but- the war with Austria…." He shook his head. "I have much work to do. Are you heading back to the Rue de Richelieu?"

"Yes; shall I convey some sort of message to the Desmoulinses?"

"Yes. Tell Camille that I was right; we have to act now before we are all doomed. France will never be safe, I fear. One way or another, we will end up spilling blood in the hopes that it will somehow make us safe."

They had reached the gate to the Duplays. Robespierre turned in with Brount before sticking his head out again. "You a good citizen and a remarkably brave woman, Marguerite. You have my admiration… and my trust."

Robespierre gave out his trust rarely. Marguerite was touched.

She gave him a mock salute. "I thank you. I shall let Camille Desmoulins know directly. Shall I gave him the transcript of that conversation?"

"If you would be so kind." Robespierre took her hands again and pressed them. "You have saved France."

"Hardly," Marguerite replied, squeezing his hands back. "I shall be as Iris, the rainbow goddess and speed back home."

"Be careful."

"Of course. I have a pistol in my sash."

He looked alarmed at that, but Marguerite merely smiled and walked off briskly, her curls bouncing reassuringly against her shoulders. She glanced back to see Robespierre retreat inward, the gates swinging shut on him.


	5. In Which Sir Percy Proves Persuasive

Marguerite stacked the papers together and rolled them up tightly. "Have you some place to hide them, Camille?"

"Nuh-nuh-nuh-not a puh-planned wuh-one."

"Is Lucille going with you? Have her stick it down her stays, between-"

"Done," Lucille said, taking the scroll and tucking it neatly into her cleavage. "Robespierre will not want to touch it later. Do you remember how awkward he was at our wedding, when he had to take off my garter?"

"Yes," Camille said, with a histrionic grimace at the remembrance. "Thuh-thuh-that was an unkuh-kindness on muh-muh-my puh-part, asking huh-him to be buh-best man."

"Danton would have had far too much fun, though. Come Camille. Got your pistols?" Lucille kissed her hand at Marguerite and ran out of the apartment, clutching her husband by the hand. "I feel like Mary Stuart. Hurry please, darling!"

Camille lifted his hat before his wife dragged him out.

"Take care!" Marguerite called, watching them disappear down the staircase. Much to her surprise, Louis walked up it, scowling in a handsome sort of fashion.

"What _is _the matter with the Desmoulinses?" he asked. "Despite the obvious."

"Oh hush. Stop saying things like that. Camille is as celebrated and dedicated a patriot as you will ever find. You really ought to stop teasing him about his stutter. Besides, they cannot help being young and enthusiastic."

"We are young and enthusiastic," Louis pointed out.

"We are also not a newly married couple who happen to be the celebrities of the hour. _Dieu_, I do not remember the last time I was that energetic. I feel ninety at least. Come on in off of the landing."

Marguerite led him to the dining room, where she collapsed gracelessly into one of the chairs. "Oof. I am not used to keeping such early hours. It does not seem fair to ask someone to stay up into the early hours of the morning, sweating onstage, to then awaken at the crack of dawn."

"What?" Louis asked, looking startled. "What have you been doing, Margot?"

"Staving off war," Marguerite answered flippantly. She was at a stage of exhaustion which led to general giddiness. Louise walked in with a coffee tray. "The Desmoulins left already, Louise. Since there are three cups, will you join us?"

Louise carefully set the tray down and wiped her hands on her apron. "I would not take the liberty, Mademoiselle-"

Ooh, full consonants and very tight pronunciation. Louise was either very angry or very worried.

"What is the matter Louise?"

"Did you…?" Louise avoided her gaze and Marguerite wearily pushed herself out of the chair to walk over and embrace her lady's maid.

"I went to Robespierre. We are safe with him."

"I am very glad," Louise said, her voice cracking. She was a devoted fan of Robespierre and often delighted in attending meetings of the Jacobin club with Marguerite, to hear Robespierre speak. "Excuse me." Louise nearly ran out of her room, her face buried in her hands.

Louis, after a moment's pause, raised one eyebrow. "Well. That was exciting."

"Long story short, Louise was engaged to that baker who died in the bread riots three years ago. Today would have been her wedding anniversary."

"And what does Citoyen Robespierre have to do with this?"

"Well, Louise ended up convincing me to go to Robespierre at dawn this morning. _Dieu_, does the man never sleep? He was up and reading _The Social Contract_ for at least an hour before I arrived."

"He is dedicated," Louis replied, the light of hero worship stirring him into expression. He seemed almost… _beautiful _then. "He is truly the one good man on this earth."

Marguerite settled herself on the couch. "He is a good man. I trust him."

"Which, I suppose, is why you went to him. With what, may I ask?"

Closing her eyes and leaning back against the couch she began, "Now Louis, you really must not get upset, because I am far too tired to deal with it this morning."

Louis made a noncommittal sound.

"Sir Percy took me to a monarchist salon last night."

"He did _what_?" Louis demanded, his voice cracking.

"I did ask you not to get upset, my dear cousin." She opened her eyes to watch Louis stand and pace the sitting room furiously.

"And you- you just went, Marguerite?"

"I had very little choice in the matter. If it makes you feel better, Paul Déroulède was there and he was the one to invite me."

"But he is a delegate!"

"That does not mean he cannot be a moderate, Louis. Control yourself." Louis stalked up and down the sitting room, almost incandescent with fury. Marguerite made a mental note to hide the vases before she told Louis about the Marquis de Saint-Cyr.

"All the same, you are in no way beholden to Déroulède. Did he take you?"

"No, as I said, Sir Percy did. Sit _down_, Louis, before you wear out a hole in my carpet."

"Why did you let him take you?" Louis demanded, dropping himself into a chair.

"What right have you to question me and my motives?" Marguerite asked, now thoroughly irritated.

"Because I am your cousin and if it is heard that you went to a monarchist salon-"

"Where I heard something of national importance. Really, Louis, if you must disparage my character, ask Robespierre what he thinks first. He has much better judgment than you and approves of me."

"That still does not help me at all to understand why a woman of sense and understanding did not refuse to go to such a congregation of traitors."

Marguerite sighed pettishly. "It seemed harmless enough. The Princesse de Lamballe would have cried if I did not. Besides, I trust Sir Percy, he would not knowingly put me in danger, and he did manage to stave off any unpleasantness by virtue of the fact that he is rich, best friends with the Prince of Wales, and six-odd foot and heavily muscled."

"How can you be sure of that?"

"That sir Percy is six-odd foot and well-muscled? Why, naturally, Louis, one has but to look at the man stooping through the doorways-"

Louis interrupted her with, "You know I was not speaking of that, Marguerite. How do you know that he would not knowingly put you in danger?"

"Unlike you," Marguerite retorted, "Sir Percy is a true gentleman and one of the most gallant, courteous men I have ever met. I doubt that he has ever done an un- chivalrous thing in his life. Besides that, he's wildly in love with me. At least, I am decently sure that he is."

Louis looked positively dangerous as leaned forward on his seat, his hands clenched around the arms of his chair. "Marguerite, he is an English aristocrat."

"And so? It does not make him any less chivalrous."

"Yes, but it makes him less likely to be able to love."

Marguerite shifted slightly so that her head was at a more comfortable angle on the back of the couch. "I really do not think Sir Percy is the sort of person to love lightly. I have had some experience with love, after all."

"Love?" Louis scoffed, leaning back. "Marguerite, I grant that you are three and twenty, but you have spent your life in the theatre, acting out fairy tales. What can you know of love?"

"If you put it like that, next to nothing," Marguerite replied honestly, pulling on a curl of hair and releasing it to spring back in place. "But what can you know of it either, Louis?"

"I loved once," he said, simply.

He had, Marguerite remembered, pulling on the curl again. When he was seventeen, with all the beauty of a Greek god as he galloped across the countryside on his horse- Louis had then been wild and swift and only beginning to become dangerous-his blue eyes, not yet as sharp and piercing as they were now, had fallen on Therèse Gelle.

Therèse was beautiful and flighty, with roses in her cheeks and nothing but air in her head. She was the illegitimate daughter of the mayor, and Louis was absolutely smitten. He loved her with all the fierce, hungry, burning passion of his soul, to such an extent that it bewildered everyone else as much as it frightened them. Armand, who then had followed around Louis as young students in Paris had followed around the aging, ailing Rousseau, was baffled at the change.

"It's so odd, Margot," Armand had said, watching as Louis disappeared over the hill, the sun outlining his figure, making him appear as gilded as the painted angels of a prayer book. "He used to let me sit by him in school, before I made friends with anyone. He was so moody, so sullen, so proud, so- so glum. He thought Rousseau was too idealistic. Now he's -he's smiling all the time and he says that Rousseau was a little too grim in the way he looked at the world- now, he's- he's _happy._"

And Louis was, for a time.

He was kind to his mother and his sister and his cousins, he smiled at dinner, and was (most shockingly of all) almost obedient.

Then Therèse threw him over for her father's clerk. That passion Louis had had, that set his eyes ablaze and melted his sullen, icy reserve, turned inward and began to fester. At that time, he stole his mother's silver and ran off to Paris.

"Armand learned nothing from my example," Louis continued on, the smoldering passion rising in a dull flush on his clear skin. He tugged on an earring, twisted it, released it. "Aristocrats cannot love, Marguerite. Now you do not learn from your cousin and your brother."

"Who says I am in love with Sir Percy?" Marguerite demanded, still playing with the curl. "It is a ridiculous notion to begin with. If I was going to start falling in love at my time of life I should think I would pick someone a bit-" Marguerite struggled to find a polite way to phrase 'more intelligent than a box full of cravats'.

"A bit less mentally disabled?"

"Come now, he is… unintelligent, I grant you, but he is hardly running into walls."

Louis leaned back in his seat. He still looked oddly dangerous and Marguerite abruptly stood, went over to the mirror on the wall, and pretended to be fixing her hair.

"You said you went to visit Citoyen Robespierre this morning," Louis commented, sinking into his chair and looking at Marguerite curiously.

"I did," Marguerite replied, adjusting her bandeau and arranging her curls to better frame her face. "Eleonore Duplay was very… pleasant. Have you met her yet?"

"No. I have yet to go over. Charlotte is in a temper over Maxime's location."

"Well, it _is_ only natural to want to keep house for your brother." Marguerite did the same thing. "And Charlotte is so dreadfully possessive. Not to speak against her, really. She does so support her brother."

"Why did you go?"

Marguerite avoided eye contact with her reflection. "Because, despite your disparagement of my ability to learn by example, I do know that, as much as I should like to make the whole world my adoring audience, not everyone will be very fond of me- or of the republic. I had to tell Citoyen Robespierre of one of those people."

"Go on," Louis said, a bit guardedly.

Still a little peeved at Louis, Marguerite's reply was almost frostily formal and short, extremely curt and very emotionless. "I managed to overhear the marquis de Saint-Cyr plotting to overthrow the current government and invite Austria in. I went this morning to tell Robespierre and to give him a scrap of paper I had found in the fireplace and then came back to send the Desmoulins to him, along with a written account of what I had witnessed."

Louis was silent and Marguerite turned to face him, chin tilted up, arms folded. "There, you see Louis? I am a good citizen after all."

"Sir Percy to see you, mademoiselle," Louise announced, perfectly blandly.

Louis raised an eyebrow.

"He's nice," Marguerite replied defensively. "And an admirer of my work in the theatre. He remembered a role I played two years ago better than I do. There is no harm in receiving him."

"Really? After all I have said on the subject?"

"Pah. You are hardly an expert on Sir Percy Blakeney, bart. In any case, I have been warned. If the English aristo should do anything untoward- which he will not, since he is, after all, Sir Percy- then I know well enough not to be swept off in a passion. I am not that sort of woman regardless, _as you should know_." She gave him a very pointed look.

"I should hate to have my speeches ignored," Louis remarked, startlingly mildly.

"Have him come in, Louise." Marguerite adjusted her bandeau into a more flattering angle and then seated herself on the divan.

"I suppose you will want me to go," Louis said.

"Meaning you just do not wish to talk to Sir Percy. He's really very-"

"Stupid, my dear Margot. I shall leave you to his banalities." He stood and walked over to her. Marguerite held out her hand, which he bypassed entirely to kiss her cheek and whisper, "Aristos cannot love."

Marguerite made a tired, quasi-playful swat at his shoulder and looked up to see Sir Percy. Despite herself, she brightened immediately. There was just _something_ about Sir Percy that made people happy; even if she was the sort of woman who didn't fall in love and was armed by lectures against what Louis often termed 'feminine weakness', she could hardly remain immune from it. He was just so _cheering_.

"Sir Percy! You know cousin Louis? Louis was leaving."

"Antoine," Louis corrected her, in a long-suffering sort of voice.

"Whatever your name is, off you go," Marguerite said, with an attempt at her usual flippancy. "Please come in, Sir Percy. Forgive me for not standing up, but I really am exhausted."

Sir Percy and Louis bowed stiffly to one another and Louis strode out the door. After a moment's hesitation, Sir Percy sat next to Marguerite on the divan.

"You and your cousin seem very close," Sir Percy said carefully.

"We grew up together before his mother sent me to a convent-school," Marguerite replied, leaning back against the divan. "Then his mother disowned us both- him for stealing her silverware and me for taking to the stage. It seems strange, but we only just recently reached any sort of understanding."

"Oh," said Sir Percy, in a defeated tone of voice.

"Oh, not like that!" Marguerite exclaimed quickly. "Not an _understanding._ Ugh, marry Louis? What a horrible idea."

"Really?"

"Oh yes. He's a horrible poet. Do not ever let him show you the poetry he got published. It is incredibly trashy."

Sir Percy raised his eyebrows. "And so all your admirers must be proficient poets?"

"Hm? Oh, might as well make it a rule. If you wish to admire Mademoiselle Saint-Just you must, 1. Be a good poet, 2. Attend theatrical performances, 3. Have slain a dragon…."

He laughed and Marguerite smiled. "Ah, good! I still have the power to entertain. It is a good thing to check from time to time." She leaned against his shoulder because she still felt exhausted and Sir Percy felt safe.

Sir Percy casually draped an arm about her waist for his own comfort and Marguerite smiled up at him. "Thank you. You are wonderful to be around. I can never be miserable for long with you here."

"I am glad to be of some small service to you," Sir Percy replied, smiling shyly.

He really was a sweet idealist.

"I suppose I should say that I am glad that you are glad, but now I just blab on." Marguerite hid a yawn. "Forgive me. I could not sleep last night."

"I am sorry to hear it."

"You ought to be. It was your fault."

"Really? How so?"

"You dragged me to that salon," Marguerite replied, glancing up at him again. "That and you did almost kiss me."

Sir Percy blushed. "Er, I do apologize."

"It might have been pleasant. You ought to give me a bit more warning next time." They were silent for a while. It was a nice sort of silence, where nothing more needed to be said.

Then, of course, Sir Percy went and said something.

"I love you."

Marguerite closed her eyes and pushed herself off the divan. "And today was going so well, too," she muttered to herself. "I had hoped to avoid this unpleasantness."

When she turned and opened her eyes, Sir Percy sat very stiff and still, with a completely neutral expression on his face.

"I am sorry," Marguerite began, not wanting to look at him, but doing so regardless, "but really, I ought to say something before you go farther. You don't love me. Who was it you saw me as? Psyche. You love Psyche. Or you love my stage persona, the actress who always sparkles and shines and has something witty to say at every event, and whose main method of communication is flirtation. You have no idea who I am, ergo you cannot love me. End of discussion."

"No," Sir Percy replied, amiably enough, though with a hint of coolness in his drawling French. "I believe, my dear Mademoiselle Saint-Just, that you are much mistaken."

"Oh really?" Marguerite asked skeptically. "Pray enlighten me, monsieur. Why is it that you are different from every other man whom has sworn he loved me and does not mean it? I do not blame them, for they really did think that they did, but they never really _meant _it in any lasting way."

"Because I do mean it," he said, with the steadfast simplicity and strength Marguerite always recognized in him. "I have loved you since I first met you. Remember, Mademoiselle Saint-Just, I have always asked you never to doubt my sincerity. Have I given you any reason for disbelief?"

"No," Marguerite muttered, resignedly. "I am afraid that you think you mean it. I do not wish you to be unhappy." She extended her hands to him in a pretty, imploring gesture. "I really do want only your happiness. You have been a good friend to me."

"Might I be more?"

Marguerite was momentarily nonplussed as Sir Percy took her hands in his and looked up at her with an earnestness that frankly bewildered her. "Why?"

"Because I would do anything to see you happy. I love you more than I have loved anything or anyone in my life, and you-" He broke off, tried to smile. "I have been an aimless, idle man, but when I am with you, my life feels as if it has meaning and direction. I feel anew that my life is worth something, because you think that it is."

"Come, come, you are a good man," Marguerite protested in English, entirely bewildered.

"I am happy when I am with you. Happier than I have ever been in my entire life, and happier than I will ever be again."

"That really is too…."

The look in his eyes was horrible; she could not describe it and she could not ever wish for it to change.

"Look, you cannot love me," Marguerite said. "I am a French actress and a republican at that. You, _mon__ami_, are best friends wiz the Prince of Wales and a baronet. It is an impossibility-"

"Love conquers all impossibilities," Sir Percy interrupted. Her hands were still in his and she wanted to pull away, but she could not bear his look of disappointment if she did and why oh why did he have to go and ruin a friendship-

"I'm an _actress_!" It somehow seemed an important point to stress.

"And? Your Revolution has done wonders on that count."

"Yes, we of the theatre are real people under the law and in the church, but- really, can you wish to- to love an actress?" She regretted switching to English. It was so much harder to express herself.

"I only wish to love you." He was so sincere about it! "If you will let me."

'You really do mean it," Marguerite said, only realizing it was true once she had said it. It was an absolute, overwhelming adoration, without limit or conditions, without anything but passion for her. It was intoxicating to be looked at like this, to feel like this, to have a handsome, wealthy, honorable man spreading himself before her, offering up himself, flawed as she was. A part of her held back; it reminded her too much of the theatre, of the stage. Surely this sort of love could never exist but in plays? She mentally ran through the lists of reasons why he should not love her or why he would stop doing so: she was an actress, she was a Republican, she refused to hide her intelligence, she would not obey the rules of stifling British society, she was only a bourgoise with a father and mother who had lived unextraordinary lives in the countryside, she was good friends with all the women whom Sir Percy's friends would hate, she was an advocate for women's rights, she followed Rousseau, she believed that slavery was immoral and ought to be abolished, she was Catholic, she did not love him….

The last reason did not seem to stick. It did not seem entirely true.

"Will you let me prove it to you? My intentions are all that is honorable, Mademoiselle."

"Of course they are, if they are your intentions. Percy- are you… I really have no idea what to say anymore."

"Say that you will let me prove my love to you, then."

The idea of service _would_ appeal to him. Hadn't they discussed knights and legends and grail quests just the evening before? He was, after all, Sir _Percy_, named after the knight who helped Galahad attain the Holy Grail. He _would_ need some sort of overarching quest to give his life meaning and purpose. Marguerite only wished that she would not be the object in question; she was hardly worth all the toil and suffering and she was most assuredly not a prize to be won, or any sort of saint, or even remotely holy.

All the same, the look of absolute adoration, the smile, the sheer sincerity and earnestness….

"If you wish."

Sir Percy broke out into the most adorable smile Marguerite had ever seen. "Good. May I kiss you, then?"

"Go right ahead."

And he did.

Marguerite had been kissed before, but never like this, never with such earnestness, such unwavering, slow, achingly slow passion. It was a wonderful feeling and she felt as if she could melt into his arms.

It was suddenly very difficult to remember why she had ever doubted Sir Percy's sincerity.


	6. In Which Marguerite Makes a Decision

Marguerite took him everywhere. To meetings at the Jacobin Society and to sessions of the National Assembly, to arguments in Olympe de Gouge's sitting room as she helped come up with a viable plan for women's rights, to the Duplays, where they sat down to dinner with a family of carpenters and where Marguerite animatedly discussed Rousseau and the importance of women inheriting property, to Rose's little apartment and salon, where they talked to all the delegates drawn in by the importance of Rose's husband and the charm and serenity of Rose's smiles, to Talma's home, where they discussed philosophy and literature and art and argued vehemently but good-naturedly about plays and novels and poetry.

She tested Sir Percy, showing him who she was as she had never shown anyone else before, deliberately making herself more extreme than she generally perceived herself to be. She sent him notes and invitations on impulse, half-expecting him to turn them down, to say that he had quite enough of an impetuous French actress who kept dragging him to all these strange places without any notice at all. Marguerite watched and waited for his love to wane. Could it be when she dirtied her hands by helping pass out bread at the little church of Saint-Roche? No, for there was Percy, right beside her, exquisite as ever, shaking hands very solemnly with the gamins who expressed an interest in trying to become a baronet when they grew up. He did not seem the least bit shocked at how wide-spread the idea of earning a position instead of inheriting it was in Paris and seemed to accept it as a matter of course that Marguerite, an actress, was familiar with the poor who sometimes snuck backstage to see her perform, and was as comfortable in their society as he was at St. James's court.

Could it be when she trod the boards, working for her daily bread? No, for there again, Sir Percy was, smiling and shouting the republican 'bravo' (the queen had started the trend of applauding after a performance, after all, and so applause was not allowed in the _Theatre de la Republique_) after every performance. He befriended the actors and actresses backstage and impressed the stagehands by actually noticing that they existed and speaking with them, with a familiarity brought on by several months of continuous attendance at the theatre.

Could it be when she and Armand relaxed together, joked and threw napkins at each other at the dinner table? No, for there he was again, sitting at the table and smiling. He fit in almost anywhere, could move comfortably in any society and Marguerite felt helplessly drawn to him for that. He moved up and down through social rank as easily as she did- perhaps easier, because he had been born to do it and had had more practice at it, since he had been at it continuously since he had been born.

Could it be when she walked about with one of her dearest friends, Rose de Beauharnaise, a Creole raising her children on her own, publically separated from her husband? No, for he admitted very easily that he was "quite taken" with Marguerite's pretty, gentle friend and went out of his way to invite Madame de Beauharnais with them (as a chaperone and as a friend). In him was a strand of idealism that Marguerite found absolutely fascinating. Here was a man who could look entirely beyond circumstance to see just a person; only a human face looking out at another. As a result, he got along with everyone and genuinely liked almost all he met. And thus, everyone liked him. Marguerite had never met anyone whose character so fascinated her and could not quite ever understand how Sir Percy managed to always, always see the absolute best in everyone.

The passion, the steadiness, the steadfastness and the blind admiration never once wavered and it frightened as much as delighted her. He delighted in doing unexpectedly gallant things. It suited his notions of love and romance fantastically.

It was thus that Marguerite unexpectedly found herself at a picnic in the countryside, with Percy's head on her lap and Rose, who adored all children, teaching her daughter Hortense along with a gaggle of village children and the sons and daughters of some of the invitees the rules of Blind Man's Bluff. It was a scene of fantastic domesticity, with Madame Vestris and Fauve and Chartier and Talma and Armand, whom Sir Percy had befriended as easily as they had befriended him, sprawled in various attitudes of repose on the grass, with Talma's sweet new wife wandering around with a carafe of wine, and three of Sir Percy's English friends loosening and settling quite comfortably into this Rousseauian paradise by wandering off to look at what Sir Percy described as a slice of Eden on the other side of the hill.

Marguerite plucked the wild daisies out of the verdant stretch of lawn she sat on and made a little chain out of them. Sir Percy looked up at her, amused.

"Oh hush," she said, trying them into a crown and placing it lopsidedly on his head. "I used to make these all the time when I was a girl."

"I feel honored to receive one," Sir Percy replied, with a smile that almost made Marguerite want to kiss him. "I take it they are gifts not given lightly."

"I am, as ever," Marguerite replied drily, "very sparing with my favors."

Sir Percy only smiled and Marguerite swatted him on the shoulder. "I should shove you off my lap for that. You are not allowed to smile at me like that in public."

"And whyever not? I enjoy smiling, Mademosielle."

"Yes, but we are not engaged or anything of the sort and I hate rumors with a violent passion."

"We could be," Sir Percy said, looking up at her. "Engaged, if you wished it."

Marguerite colored, feeling the heat rise from her throat to her face. "Not yet."

Despite her intent, those two words made Percy brighten immediately and he sat up and turned to her, the daisy crown flopping over into his eyes ridiculously. "Really?"

"Yes," Marguerite said firmly, reaching the decision only as she said it.

Sir Percy checked a motion to kiss her and settled for an, "I love you."

Hortense, breathless and happy, ran over to them and pointed at Sir Percy's head.

"Would you like a daisy chain?" Marguerite asked.

"Mademoiselle Saint-Just makes the best daisy-chains in the world," Sir Percy said and, so happy he completely forgot the bounds of propriety, wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed the side of her neck.

Marguerite swatted playfully at his shoulder without any intention of making him let go and turned so that his arms were still around her waist and she almost but not quite sat in his lap.

Hortense sat down in front of them with a curious expression on her face. Marguerite felt a vague stirring of unease that bit at the happiness, the sheer thrill of being, in sitting with Sir Percy's arms around her waist and his blind adorations engulfing her. It was an intoxicating pleasure that made her feel oddly languorous and almost supine, as if they had been kissing without anyone interrupting them, but at the back of her mind was always the examples of the romances she knew.

Louise, a premature widow, so closed off and so practical because, after a point, it was better not to feel than to wander around with the continual pain of having loved and lost. Rose, so endlessly betrayed despite her kindness, her gentleness, the attempts at forgiveness, the eventual separation. It was terrifying, how absorbing this contentment was, how fulfilling it was, how surrounded Marguerite felt by it. If she was not careful, she felt that she would submerge herself in his idealism, in his wonderful, chivalrous, indescribably astonishing love, due to the persistence, to the power of his passion. She always held herself back, but there was the bubbling consciousness that it was always a viable possibility; that someday she could just live as if onstage, surrounded by love, deluged by it, saturated with it until she could understand fully just how Sir Percy felt and trust him entirely.

It was a startling idea that was as wonderful as it was terrible and Marguerite did not like thinking on it overmuch.

Marguerite finished off her daisy chain and set it on Hortense's head. "There you are. Lovely! You look like a queen."

Hortense gravely took off her crown and studied it. "Mama got told that she would be a queen someday."

Sir Percy, apparently unable to restrain his high spirits (it really was a lovely change) kissed the top of Marguerite's head. He was not smothered by hair, however, as Marguerite had taken recently to wearing her hair in loose curls down her back. Sir Percy particularly liked it, which Marguerite had discovered to be a newly motivating factor in her decisions on style and dress. "Really? Who told your mother?"

"An old fortune-teller, back in Martinique. Can they really tell what one's fate is?"

"I have always seen it as rather fixed," Marguerite replied, settling back into Sir Percy's arms. She could feel him smile against the back of her head. "One must struggle through the stream of history, I suppose."

"Come now, my lovely republican," Sir Percy said. "One cannot choose one's fate? One cannot take fortune by the three hairs of his head and drag him about?"

Marguerite laughed. "The three hairs of his head? Percy, you do have the strangest expressions sometimes."

"The idea behind it remains the same, m'dear. You take the chances you are given and make the most of them. No one is really set into one pattern of behavior."

"Oh really?"

"Yes. I, for example, had no idea that I was, perhaps, fated to fall madly in love with you."

"You do talk nonsense sometimes, my dear."

"Though not at this particular moment."

Hortense watched them very gravely and Marguerite smiled at her. "_He_ is angling for a kiss, Hortense. Ignore him entirely."

At that moment, Rose came back, looking puzzled and holding a note in her hand. "Marguerite? Were you expecting some sort of courier?"

"No." Marguerite detangled herself from Sir Percy, who remained charmingly loathe to let her go, and walked through the soft green grasses over to Rose. "Who would send me a courier?" A sudden panic seized her. "Armand- is Armand alright?"

"Open it." Rose handed her the letter and Marguerite nearly tore it in her haste to break the seals. She scanned it once without any sort of comprehension, but, not seeing her brother's name, sighed in relief. "Good. It is not Armand."

The letter read thus:

_Citoyenne Saint-Just:_

_You are a hero of the republic! With your evidence we arrested, this morning, the ci-devant Marquis de Saint- Cyr and in searching his papers uncovered a plot which revealed the king's "abduction" to Varennes this June to have been, in fact, an abandonment of his country. There are records of a letter written by Louis XVI on 20 June which we will now search for. Moreover, we have arrested the other conspirators in this plot (the entire Saint-Cyr family, along with several other ci-devant nobles already under suspicion) and have circumvented war. We thank you for doing your duty to the republic._

_The trial will be on 4 August 1791 and we request your attendance. There is also the matter of some paperwork. Visit Citoyen Robespierre, the Public Prosecuter at your earliest convenience._

_In the name of liberté, egalité, and fraternité,_

_Citoyen Maximilien Robespierre, on behalf of the National Assembly_

Marguerite carefully folded it back up, her expression thoughtful.

"Who was it from?" inquired Rose.

"Robespierre," Marguerite replied, almost indifferently. "It was a thank you note. He is always so unfailingly polite."

It was another one of those whims of hers that turned out to have momentous significance later on. It seemed like a very trivial thing, to hide this, to savor this as a bitter triumph over enemies, to hide her good deeds away. Of course, to explain it in full would lead to a very long and complicated story that Marguerite did not entirely wish to tell- not then, with the sun shining and golden, the wind pushing at her curls of hair, and Percy waiting for her underneath the tree.

"He is," Rose agreed. She shaded her eyes to look for Hortense, leaving Marguerite to fold the note up and hide it in her stays, before going back to Sir Percy and dragging him off on a walk that ended with much satisfaction on both sides.

When she returned home, Marguerite kissed Sir Percy goodbye, ignored Louise's grumblings, and visited the Duplay household, where Elonore, this time, actually looked happy to see her.

"Citoyen Robespierre says that you have helped France," Eleonore said. "He could not go into details, because they were a matter of national security, but if you have helped _la patrie_, then no further explanations are needed."

"Thank you, but if it is a matter of national security, we probably ought to keep it very quiet that I did anything at all."

Eleonore hesitated a moment and then stammered out, "I heard- I have… the papers. I am not supposed to read those papers, but- but the papers said, they said that you- that you had an- an English admirer?"

"I suppose you mean Sir Percy?" Marguerite asked, a little ruefully. She had meant to keep Percy to herself for a bit longer, but taking him continually around Paris with her was bound to catch someone's notice and further to cause gossip.

Eleonore brightened immediately. "Yes."

"Was there anything you wished to know about him, or merely that he existed, my dear?"

"N-no. But I so rarely meet those causing headlines- that is- until citoyen Robespierre moved here, and it is all very strange, but I- I thought…." Eleonore flushed and fell silent. Unlike Marguerite, Eleonore did not possess the sort of natural vivacity and warmth that led to outpourings of emotion or any sort of comfort in long speeches.

"Oh. You wished to confirm them? Well, I cannot say that everything in the scandal sheets is true, but I _am_ fond of Sir Percy, he is certainly extremely fond of me, and he _has_ been accompanying me around Paris."

Eleonore positively glowed with happiness. "Thank you, citoyenne. You were to see citoyen Robespierre?"

"Yes."

She led Marguerite through the kitchen, to the protests of Madame Duplay, who had two surly National Guardsmen peeling potatoes, since citoyen Robespierre could find no use for them, and up through the claustrophobic staircase and hallway.

Marguerite saw Desmoulins pacing the length of Robespierre' small, unfurnished room as Robespierre, sitting at his desk, read from a speech.

"Nuh-no," Desmoulins said as they approached, stopping behind Robespierre and jabbing at the paper. "Nuh-nuh-not fuh-forceful enough, Muh-Muh-Maxime."

"I can hardly be more vehement, unless… here, what do you think of this? 'I have indicted the Legislative Assembly and I now ask the Legislative Assembly to indict me'?"

Desmoulins pursed his lips in thought, pushing his hair off of his temples. "Cuh-cuh-cuh-close. Wuh-we are vuh-very cuh-close."

Eleonore Duplay knocked on the open door.

"Yes?" Robespierre asked, looking up, the sun catching in his powdered hair and making him look very pale and washed out. He glowed, though, with some hidden enthusiasm, his sea-green eyes alight, his glasses pushed up into his hair.

"Citoyenne Saint-Just to see you, citizens."

"The huh-huh-huh-hero of thuh-thuh-thuh-the huh-hour!" exclaimed Camille, beaming. "Luh-luh-let her in, suh-suh-citoyenne Dupuh-puh-play!"

"Thank you very much, Eleonore. You are always so kind to escort my visitors here. I wonder that I have not imposed so much upon your family that they will grow tired of my constant stream of callers."

"Oh no, not at all!" cried Eleonore, her blush rising to her cheeks. "I- we are devoted to y- the- the causes of the country. _La patrie_!" She ducked her head down and left. Marguerite raised an eyebrow, and, with the heightened sensibilities of one very close to love, decided that Eleonore had developed a _tendre _for Robespierre. It made her behavior make much more sense; of course Eleonore would be jealous of a pretty friend of citizen Robespierre's, whom she would see as a potential rival. Of course she would be excited at the news that said potential rival was, in fact, in love with a British aristo.

Marguerite paused at that. Was she really in love with Sir Percy? It seemed a little bizarre, but not as hard to believe as it once had been.

Robespierre had said something to her which Marguerite had completely missed. "Do forgive me, citoyen. I was just… thinking." She glanced back into the hallway to make sure that Eleonore was not within hearing. "Have you noticed that Citoyenne Duplay has a… ah, fondness for you?"

"Does she?" Robespierre asked, with genuine surprise.

"I thuh-thuh-though yuh-yuh-you wuh-were guh-going to muh-muh-muh-marry Luh-Luh-Lucille's suh-sister," Camille said, with a hint of reproach. "Wuh-wuh-we wuh-wuh-would huh-have buh-been buh-buh-brothers. Luh-like wuh-we suh-said we wuh-would buh-be in s-s-s-school."

"I do not think that I am the type to marry," Robespierre replied, a little bewildered.

"Come, come, you may change your mind," Marguerite interrupted brightly. "I did, after all."

Wait, what?

She sat down in the chair Camille pulled out for her and pretended that she hadn't said anything at all. Robespierre, looking highly confused, decided to return to his speech for a moment.

"What if I rework it?" he asked, a little absently. "Make the speech not a- a condemnation of Citizen Capet, but… a denouncement of the Legislative Assembly?" He put his pen down and stared at his desk in thought. "I think- yes. It is as bad to sit by and do nothing when one sees a crime committed as to commit the crime oneself."

Marguerite was suddenly very glad that she had given Robespierre the scrap of paper and her record of the conversation.

Camille clapped his hands together. "Puh-perfect!"

"I shall run it by Danton and then… yes. The time for change is upon us. We must be the change we wish to see, for otherwise, we will see no change at all."

"Nuh-nice!" Camille said, appreciatively. "Buh-buh-but wuh-we duh-do huh-have-"

"Oh! The Marquis de Saint- Cyr." Robespierre turned and smiled at Marguerite. "I did say that you needed to be at the public trial?"

"Yes. You also mention paperwork?"

"It is not very much," he replied, sorting through a stack of papers on his desk. "Ah, here. Just look through this and make sure that it is correct. If it is, sign it."

Marguerite took the paper and scanned it. "Yes, it is all correct. I, euh… do not have a pen…."

"Puh-pah, Muh-Maxime," chided Camille, taking a quill, dripping it in ink and handing it to Marguerite. "Yuh-yuh-you wuh-would fuh-forget yuh-your huh-head if it wuh-was not a-tuh-tuh-ttached."

Marguerite signed it and handed both over. "I do confess that I have concerns, citoyens."

"About?"

"The family. Angelique de Saint-Cyr, in particular. She has been… well, you would shield her from the unpleasantness, will you not? She is comparatively innocent." Marguerite had tried but she still couldn't get over the continual resentment she felt against Angelique for getting her brother whipped to within an inch of his life. "I have a feeling that she has also been recently upset."

"Buh-buh-buh whuh-what?" Camille asked. "Huh-her's fuh-father's uh-uh-arrest wuh- wasn't enough?"

"I think I stole her beau," Marguerite said frankly. "No, that's not quite true. He was never hers, but she did come to look on him as her property."

"You make the poor man sound like a dog," Robespierre interjected, and then, thus reminded, whistled for Brount. Marguerite heard the dog padding up the stairs.

"Euh, he is a bit dog-like."

"I huh-hope she duh-duh-duh-does nuh-not buh-blame yuh-you unduh-duly thuh-then," Camille said, flopping onto Robespierre's bed and allowing Brount to occupy the space by Robespierre's chair.

"I think us even. My brother, after all, fell in love with Angelique de Saint-Cyr and was consequently beaten to within an inch of his life."

"What?" Robespierre exclaimed, alarmed. "How could a one man do that to his fellow citizens?"

"Thuh-thuh-the aristocuh-cracy is nuh-not the suh-same as uh-us, Muh-Maxime," Camille replied, his message an echo of Louis's.

"They are just as human as we are," Marguerite objected. "Take Sir Percy."

"I luh-like huh-him," Camille replied. "A puh-perfect spuh-specimen of thuh- the Eh- English _milord_. A buh-bit luh-like thuh-the only fuh-form of nuh-nobility Ruh-Rousseau apuh-pproved of- thuh-the kuh-kind that tuh-take their duh-duties suh-seriously and suh-subvert thuh-their nuh-needs tuh-to thuh-the nuh-needs of uh-others."

"He wants a little more political understanding, but he seems to try his best to follow the general will and that is really all any man can ask of another." Robespierre scratched Brount on the head. "We have gotten very distracted, though. What does Sir Percy have to do with the Saint-Cyrs?"

"Oh!" Camille exclaimed, sitting upright. "Uh-uh-I remuh-member. Thuh-there wuh-were suh-some suh-sort of ruh-rumors uh-about huh-him and thuh-the Suh-Saint-Suh-Cyr guh-girl buh-being enguh-gaged. It puh-pays tuh-to huh-have a guh-gossip cuh-column."

"How was that news of interest to anyone but the parties involved?" Robespierre asked.

"I suppose because if they had married the Saint-Cyrs would have immeasurably more funding for the Austrian invasion," Marguerite mused aloud. "Sir Percy is probably one of the richest men in England, after all and, as you said Citoyen Robespierre, Sir Percy is not particularly politically aware. It might take very little to persuade him- bah. I am being cynical again. Sir Percy is much too kind and good-natured to ever fund a war against someone else and he really is not as stupid as all that. He is merely idealistic."

Camille and Robespierre exchanged glances before Camille grinned hugely. "Yuh-you stuh-stole huh-her buh-beau, yuh-you suh-said?"

Marguerite felt herself coloring. "Eh… yes, and?"

"Shall you abandon us for England soon?" Robespierre asked.

"I doubt it."

"Good. France is in danger and we need all the dedicated citizens we can keep. Perhaps you may convert Sir Percy? Who knows what good one citizen may do for another?" He paused, then apparently trying to think of something pertinent to the situation that did not have to do with patriotism, looked as kindly as he could and added on, "If you ever wish to draw up a marriage contract, though, I would be happy to help you."

Marguerite cleared her throat. "Alright, thank you. However, no harm will come to the Marquis's daughters?"

"Unless they have been conspiring with Austria as well, which I doubt, they are completely safe." Robespierre scratched Brount behind the ears a final time, stood and bowed to Marguerite. "That is really it, then, citoyen. We will see you on August 4th."

Marguerite dropped a curtsy (Camille gave a little half-bow from his seat on the bed) and left the house while trying her best to hide her flaming face.

"Mademoiselle Saint-Just!" Ffoulkes cried, speeding up to meet her as she walked out on the street.

Marguerite, hoping that her completion had returned to normal, smiled at him and held out her hand. "Sir Andrew! It is a pleasure."

Sir Andrew gallantly took her hand and kissed it. "Where are you headed?"

"Back home, to the rue de Richelieu."

"May I escort you?"

"That would be delightful."

He offered her his arm, which Marguerite took, and they began to walk down the cobbled streets. Marguerite felt the urge to respond to his gallantry with another attempt at English.

" 'Ow- how do you like France, so far?"

"It is a lovely place," Sir Andrew replied, beaming at her for her attempt at English. "It is so very different from how I remember it, however."

"Oh, I suppose so. Do you approve of ze- the changes?"

"I have not quite made up my mind yet," he admitted, with a rueful laugh. "I do confess that I miss Versailles and Petit Trianon. But Paris still has its charms, one of which is on my arm."

"Thank you."

"Ah, where did you just come from?"

"Oh, I was paying a call on citoyen Robespierre."

"The public prosecutor?" he asked, showing either that Sir Percy had given him a crash course in the members of Marguerite's salon, or he was much more politically aware than Marguerite had previously assumed. "I heard he was quite the demagogue."

A three-syllable word? Quite impressive. "He is! He will be giving a speech sometime this week at the Jacobin club. I can take you, if you wish, but we shall have to get there early. Citoyen Robespierre is very popular."

"Was it a social call?"

Marguerite hesitated. "Yes, for the most part."

"The most part?"

"There was a bit of trifling legal business. Citizen Robespierre was a lawyer and a judge in his home-province of Artois and so a perfect person to ask for advice."

"Oh. What did you discuss then?"

Marguerite decided not to tell him. "Oh, this and that. Marriage, among other things."

"Are you engaged to citizen Robespierre?" Sir Andrew asked, highly confused.

"What? No!"

"Oh," Sir Andrew said, much relieved. "Blakeney will be happy to hear that. I think he means to offer for you, and, er, as a friend, I think I am… supposed to… advance his suit…."

Marguerite laughed, a bright, ringing, bell-like sound. "You have disposed of your duty very admirably, sir."

"Good," Sir Andrew replied, laughing as well. "I thought I had turned that into a right mess. I say, what is that?"

The National Guard had sectioned off a house and papers and feathers floated out of the windows down below. They appeared to be ransacking the mansion, much to the displeasure of Citizen Chauvelin, who appeared to be giving the captain of the Guard a severe dressing down.

Marguerite let go of Sir Andrew's arm to walk over and peer curiously at the house. Sir Andrew trailed behind her like a dropped shawl.

"And that is why you must stick to proper procedure!" Chauvelin snapped. "Go back inside and bring your men to order."

"They cannot respect the property of traitors," the captain replied laconically.

"Tell them that if they destroy the evidence, the traitors go free. Now _go._"

The solider lifted his shoulder in a shrug and then ambled into the house without much concern for Citizen Chauvelin or his instructions.

"What's going on, citoyen?" Marguerite asked in quick French that left Sir Andrew looking baffled.

"Searching Saint-Cyr's Parisian property for evidence." Chauvelin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with long, thin fingers to stave off an impending headache. "I heard we owe you a debt of gratitude."

"Oh hush," Marguerite replied, as someone began shouting very violently inside the house. "Who-"

The captain of the guard, looking extremely put-out, dragged out the marquise de Saint-Cyr, who, losing all composure, tried to kick her captors in the shins.

The marquise saw Marguerite standing there, looking quizzically at her. The marquise failed to recognize Marguerite until it was almost too late. The venerable lady then dug her heels into the ground and wheeled around to stare at Marguerite in hatred.

"You!" she snarled, trembling and wild-eyed. "You- did you- you must! You had something to do with this!"

"That is enough!" Chauvelin snapped. "Citoyenne Saint-Just is none of your concern, Citioyenne Saint-Cyr. _You _should be concerned at how callously and easily you betrayed your country to our most hated and active enemy!"

"She betrayed us!" howled the marquise, almost in hysterics. Her world was falling apart and she had to lunge out at something if only to reassure herself that there was solid ground somewhere.

"That would mean that at one point in time, I owed loyalty to you," Marguerite retorted.

"Do not dignify her theatrics with a response," Chauvelin advised, turning and snapping his fingers. "You lot, by the door! Secure this woman!"

A group of Guardsmen jogged over to Chauvelin as the marquise broke free from the extremely startled captain of the guard and lunged at Marguerite. Chauvelin grabbed the marquise's hands and she kicked him in the shin. Marguerite held her ground, not blinking or moving as Chauvelin failed to restrain the marquise again and Sir Andrew ran forward in concern. One of the guardsman dashed forward, grabbed the marquise around the waist, and pulled her away, her wig falling to the ground.

She burst into furious tears, her howls echoing in the street. Marguerite stood, frozen to the spot as Chauvelin tried not to lose his temper and clutched at his injured leg.

"Don't worry citoyenne, you are quite sa- are you Marguerite Saint-Just? The actress?" asked the guardsman holding the marquise by the waist.

"I am," Marguerite said, flashing a well-practiced smile.

"Me and the rest of us all watch- oof, stand down citizen!- we all come round to the _theatre de la Republique_ when we get our pay- I said stand down- and come and watch. I think you are the best comedienne there."

"Why thank you, citizen! How marvelously kind of you to say so- oh, do be careful." The marquise gave a final pathetic lunge and, after the first guardsman called out that the _aristo _was trying to attack the actress Marguerite Saint-Just, the marquise was subdued by an entire regiment of suddenly energetic National Guards.

"What's going on?" asked Sir Andrew, who obviously had no idea at all what had just happened.

"The marquise de Saint-Cyr is under arrest and not taking it well," Margureite replied, in English.

Chauvelin, likewise in English, interjected, "'Not taking it well' is a severe understatement, citoyenne."

"True. How is your leg?"

"Not broken."

"Good."

Sir Andrew looked at the scene with puzzlement, eyes traveling from Marguerite, who, with a stilted air and a smile just a tad too bright, moved on to thank the guards for their valiant defense, and to receive their awkward, awestruck replies and timid avowals of admiration, to Chauvelin, who, with the guardsmen not busy trying to gain the attention of so celebrated and beautiful an actress, tied together the hands of the marquis de Saint-Cyr and led off a noblewoman with seventy-six quarterings of nobility like an unruly horse.

Sir Andrew was by no means exceptionally perceptive.

He was well aware of this fact and often had cause for regret for it, but he felt that he ought to keep quiet about this until Sir Percy got very seriously involved with Marguerite Saint- Just. After all, why not enjoy love while one could?

Sir Andrew looked blank and promptly shelved the incident away, much like one puts away a cravat with a tear in the back of one's drawer, not to be taken out until the opportune moment. He told Sir Percy of the incident later- much later, when popular rumor filled in the details that Sir Andrew had not entirely understood and Sir Percy had already attempted to help several of the aristocratic friends of his late father escape from France, but, for the moment, Sir Andrew kept silent and let Marguerite dazzle in her false and brittle glitter.

There was one part of the entire incident that struck Marguerite particularly. As a contingent of the National Guard led away the marquise, Angelique de Saint-Cyr walked out of the house in her unrelieved white and her poufed and unpowered white-blonde hair. She watched her mother go with a sort of blank, disbelieving horror that tore at Marguerite. Angelique then, very quietly, started to cry again. Marguerite and Sir Andrew exchanged looks and Chauvelin looked exasperated, but all three began to walk over, arriving just in time to see Angelique take a final, shuddering gasp, look at Marguerite in horror, and then collapse into the dirt.

Chauvelin was extremely vexed by it and Marguerite began to feel vague stirrings of misapprehension. She _had _done the right thing. She knew she had. Then why…?

Marguerite was first and foremost a humanitarian, despite her republic politics. The thought of anyone suffering, because of her, was enough to spoil her mood and entirely forget the approbation of someone whose judgment she respected as much as Robespierre's.

She made a few, futile attempts at shaking off her melancholy which Sir Andrew was kind enough to pretend worked and sent him back to his home as soon as they reached the Rue de Richelieu.

"Dirt-on-my-rugs!" screeched Louise, as soon as Marguerite opened the door.

"Greetings, Mademoiselle," said Sir Percy's valet, wincing as Louise hit him on the side of the head with a feather duster. "Ow. His lord-ow- his lordship sends you his compli- please cease beating me over the head with the feather duster, Mademoiselle- sends you his compliments and hopes that- ow!- that his gift will remind you al- Mademosielle, please!- will remind you always of your pleasant day and the promises ex- ow! My eye!- promises exchanged. Restrain yourself Mademoiselle!"

"Dirt!" wailed Louise, managing to grab Sir Percy's valet, Frank Benyon, by the collar and shove his face close to the admittedly very large and noticeable dirt-stains on the newly cleaned carpets.

"I can see it, Mademoiselle. It is not hard to miss."

"Exactly-and-you-ground-it-into-my-rugs!"

Marguerite stepped inside and felt her melancholy lift at once. Her sitting room had been transformed into a garden, full of vases and vases of beautiful bouquets and so many potted plants the whole room seemed to be glowing with a greenish light.

She was speechless with delight as she walked around, fingers trailing over blossoms and leaves. Sir Percy was so effortlessly romantic that Marguerite felt the urge to laugh and cry and just sit down and stare at everything in astonishment. She couldn't take it all in. How could he have ever known she would need something like this?

Marguerite did not wish to think about it, so she turned her attention to Frank, who, completely manhandled by a Louise incandescent with fury, forced him to look at every speck of dirt he had tracked onto the rugs.

Louise tended to get very emotional about cleaning. Marguerite imagined that Louise must have some sort of outlet for her feelings and thus did not bother her about it, though privately resolved to step in if Louise ever looked about to strangle Frank. After all, Frank was a supremely skilled valet, as Sir Percy often told her and Marguerite had seen herself, and it did not seem the least bit fair for Frank to be punished for carrying out orders.

On the other hand, yelling about dirt and manhandling Frank could be Louise's only way of expressing affection. Sir Percy's cook and housekeeper were quite sure that Frank and Louise would go the way of Figaro and Suzanna, the valet and lady's maid of _The Marriage of Figaro_, by marrying. They would then have very serious, cleaning-obsessed children who turned into incredibly proper and efficient footmen and chambermaids. Though Marguerite found this idea equally fascinating and disturbing, she was almost as eager as the cook and the housekeeper to see the two reach some sort of understanding.

It had something to do with Marguerite's on-going inability to believe that Sir Percy could love her as he said he did, as expressed in all the plays and poems she performed onstage and debated in salons. She had the vague theory that if she saw someone else falling in love, she'd be better able to understand her own situation.

Marguerite fingered the leaves of a small, potted orange-blossom tree, her thoughts drifting back on the marquise de Saint-Cyr as Frank attempted to mildly and civilly protest that, yes, he was aware that he had brought in quite a lot of dirt and he did indeed apologize for it now please let go of his collar. A knock on the door startled them all out of their previous occupations. Louise, still furious, yanked opened the door announced, "Sir Percy Blakeney!" very crisply, enunciating every single letter, and then dragged Frank out of the room to fetch a bucket of soap and water.

"Did I return at a bad time?" Sir Percy asked, watching his impassive valet struggle out the room after Louise.

"Not at all!" Marguerite extended her hands to him and he kissed them. "Thank you, Percy. I really don't know what to say. You spoil me."

"I hope to do so, then, every day of your life."

Marguerite laughed at that. "Come, push a plant off the divan and sit with me. Did you miss me in the… what, three or four hours we were apart?"

"Indeed, and so desperately that I got you a garden. It appears I made Frank your maid's mortal enemy by doing so."

"Possibly." She turned her face up to be kissed and Sir Percy very kindly obliged her. "You know, your cook and your housekeeper have tried to get me in on their scheme to have Louise and Frank fall wildly in love with each other."

Sir Percy laughed. "Frank? Do anything wild? I do confess, m'dear, that I am not the most exciting Englishman on the planet, but I'm demmed sure that Frank makes me seem like the fool-hardiest adventurer outside of India."

"I blame _The Marriage of Figaro_," Marguerite replied pertly. "Plays always ruin your expectations of romance."

Sir Percy attempted to kiss her again and did not succeed because the sounds from the hallway made Marguerite think that Louise had decided to clobber Frank to death with a metal bucket.

"In a minute, Percy. I would rather not have the day ruined by a homicide in the hallway. All the same, I suppose I am glad that Louise and Frank have not gone the _Marriage of Figaro _route."

"Why?"

"The valet, Figaro, and the lady's maid, Suzanne, work for the Count and Countess Almaviva, who marry when they are violently in love and then, alas, grow apart. The Count gets bored and turns his attentions elsewhere, such as toward Suzanne, condemning the Countess to a loveless, joyless life." Marguerite rose and went to the door, halted only when Sir Percy tried to kiss her again and succeeded very well in the endeavor.

"If it makes you feel at all better," replied Sir Percy, "I do not find Louise attractive in the slightest."

"I am much relieved," Marguerite replied dryly.

All amiability and good-humor, he took her hand in his and added on, "Furthermore, I will never be able to stop loving you until I die."

"If you keep saying things like that," Marguerite protested, "I may believe them. You ought to stop." She opened the door to see Frank, his coat off, his wig askew, his shirt-sleeves rolled up, up to his elbows in soapy water with Louise overseeing.

Frank stood and bowed. "Hello, sir."

"I take it you are busy, Frank?"

Frank colored slightly. "You may say so, sir."

"The dirt will not vanish unless you make it do so!" Louise snapped, brandishing her feather duster very menacingly.

"You have the wrong sort of soap, Mademoiselle," Frank retorted, in a clipped, offended tone of voice.

"What, lye isn't good enough for the valet of a _milor_?"

"Shaving soap works much better, Mademoiselle. If you would listen to reason-"

"Reason! Explain to me then your reasoning in ruining the carpets!"

"Let's leave them to it," Marguerite whispered, tugging Sir Percy back into the sitting room and shutting the door on Frank and Louise's furious quarrel.

"I love you," Sir Percy said simply.

Marguerite kissed him for that and tried to lose herself in his arms, tried to shake free of everything that held her back, to allow herself to be swept away by his passion for her-

But there was always that naggling thought: this can't last.

She tried to enjoy the rush as she could, before she drowned in it. It was all she could think to do and, there, Sir Percy holding her and kissing her, her worries about the Saint-Cyrs and the bad showings at the theatre and the threat of war with Austria and the rising price of bread and the millions of other worries that threatened to drag her down-

She would grab her happiness where she could, before the deluge swept it away.


End file.
